A Song in the Stillness I: I Will See the Stars
by dismalzelenka
Summary: No one could have predicted Inquisitor Amell and her Commander would have a history. Based on the intensity of their hatred for each other, no one would have ever guessed that once, a lifetime ago, they were something very different. Ten years before the Conclave, there was a spirited young mage and a templar who would have broken every rule in the book to keep her safe.
1. The Story Goes

**Chapter 1 - So The Story Goes**

* * *

 _9:11 Dragon, Harvestmere_

They came in the middle of the night, towering figures with brightly polished armor and gleaming swords and the weight of the entire Chantry behind their deeds. Some hailed them as saviors, stalwart defenders of Andraste's faithful against an onslaught of power that could be contained no other way. Others held this view only under public scrutiny while terror flayed them alive behind closed doors. In truth, the soul rending void left behind when heavily armed men and women ripped children away from their families at a moment's notice was shared by more of Kirkwall's population than anyone dared admit aloud. Whispers of their imminent arrival had rippled among the servants for days, but tonight the rumors became something far more frightening. And Maker be damned, Revka Amell was not going to let them take her daughter.

It began with a pounding at the door followed by a quieter knock at her bedchamber. Revka awoke to her maid shaking her awake with a sense of urgency. "Templars, Messere, at the door."

She glanced over at the empty side of the bed normally occupied by her husband, Silas. Maker, how she missed him. His sister had been a mage, an apostate who had somehow managed to avoid the Circle's leash through her fifteenth name day. He didn't speak of her often, but when he did, it was with the highest regard coupled with that sad, faraway look in his eyes she had come to recognize as equal parts longing and regret. She wondered if he would feel a tinge of pride at his daughter's gift in spite of it all. Her face hardened in determination. His ship was certainly docked at some port in Antiva by now, laden with wines and spices on his return, and Andraste help her, he would not return to find his child missing and his wife in mourning. "Are you certain, Lilah?" The question fell from Revka's lips drenched in fear and desperate, pleading doubt.

"Yes, Messere. Saw them through the sitting room window." For a moment, Revka saw a flash of pity flicker across Lilah's face.

"Go to her and bring her to the cellar, quickly now." Her voice sounded like it belonged to someone else, some other woman of prestige and privilege, imperious and commanding and not at all in line with the crippling fear that gripped her as the pounding on the door intensified. "I will meet you as soon as I am able." She collected herself and forced her face into the poised expression people would expect from a woman of her standing. _They will not have my daughter._

"At once, Messere." And then Lilah was gone, bounding quietly down the halls of the Amell estate with the practiced grace of a girl intimately familiar with the art of secrets. And Maker, did this family have those in spades.

Revka had hardly wrapped the cloak around her shoulders when she heard the main doors creak open. "Good evening, Messere. Ser Tamryn, on behalf of the Circle of Magi," she heard an unfamiliar voice say. His tone was polite enough, but the greeting sent chills down her spine. "Our deepest apologies for disturbing your family at this hour. Is Lady Revka present?" She slipped out of the room and crept down the corridor before she could hear the response. It didn't matter who answered the door, just like it didn't matter now which traitorous bastard of a family member had sold her daughter out to the Chantry. Her father's pathetic grabs for power in her uncle's shadow, her hypocrite brother's self righteous speeches regarding the Chantry's idiotic stance on magic, or even her uncle - the great Lord Aristide himself - growing increasingly dour since her aunt's death and prickling with increasing prejudice towards mages after his perfect daughter eloped straight to Ferelden with an apostate; they could all rot, as far as she was concerned. She did have her dear cousin Leandra to thank, though, for the lack of resistance on her family's part when she brought a common born merchant prince from Tantervale into the family; at that point, everyone was probably just relieved he wasn't a mage too and left it alone.

She crept around the back corridor and down the stairs into the kitchens. Salted meat, dried corn cakes, and two skins of water from the larder would be enough to hide in the sewers until she formulated an escape plan. They could hide in Darktown, wait until Silas returned, and then depart on his ship before anyone found them. It wasn't exactly the best formed plan at the moment, but getting her daughter out of the estate unnoticed was the only priority on her mind right now. The door to the larder let out a rusted groan when she unlatched it just as footsteps echoed down the hallway beyond the top of the stairwell. She froze, suddenly very aware of her increasingly panicked breathing. _No. You cannot come undone. They cannot have her._ Her fingers gripped the cold stone of the wall behind her as she flattened herself against it, trying to blend in with the shadows until she could melt away into the servants' corridors. _They_ willnot _have her._

"Thank you for your haste, Ser. The girl's father is away on business, currently, but if you'll allow a moment, I'll have someone fetch my dear sister to make the arrangements."

Rage gripped her when she recognized her brother's voice. _Damion. That spineless traitor._ If she weren't so intent on escaping the estate unnoticed, she could have had his head right then and there. Void take him and the rest of this wretched family; Leandra had been wise to disappear the way she had. Her anger fueled her, fanned the flames of her boldness as she skirted the wall until she reached the door to the servants' quarters. She couldn't afford to risk getting caught for supplies, but she supposed she did have the family's crest around her neck, a pendant of silver and sapphire, an almost gaudy thing Silas had commissioned during his last trip to Rialto before their wedding that she had only worn to humor him at first. His first attempt at a wedding gift, no doubt, though he would never admit that out loud. The gesture, at least, was a thoughtful one, and over time she had even grown fond of the wretched thing. Parting with it now would be a sad thing indeed, but she steeled herself and continued through the servants' corridor. She could not afford sentimentality now, not when her daughter's future as a free woman was at stake.

The stairs to the cellar were within view, a mere ten paces away, when chaos broke loose. "Get upstairs, fan out and find the girl! Lord Damion requires her presence at once!" Her brother's bodyguard, she thought, her lip curling up with disgust. Arrogant swine. As if he were important enough to require constant protection. She ducked behind a half empty barrel of soiled towels and focused on steadying her breathing. Dashing into the cellar was not an option now, not with people searching this close by. And so she pressed her back to the wall, hugged her knees, and waited. After what felt like an eternity of silence, Revka took a deep breath and crept through the last door and down the cellar steps. The hidden exit to Darktown was almost in sight, and if they managed to disappear into the streets, the worst of it would be over. And then, she bumped into a tall, solid, imposing figure at the bottom of the stairs.

"Revka." Her father's voice was laden with disappointment. Lilah clutched at the toddler asleep in her arms, eyes wide in what Revka knew to be expertly feigned terror, shrinking away from the sword currently pointed at her face.

"You would dare?" Revka was livid, and her voice dripped with the acidity she could no longer hold back. "You would point your blade at your own granddaughter rather than ensuring she grows up outside of the chains of a Chantry that would cast her aside or cut her down the moment she tries to deviate from the path _they_ determine for her?"

"I would ensure my granddaughter grows up in a place built to _protect_ her," he hissed. "Who do you think will train her when her powers grow beyond her capacity to control them? Maker, girl, she's barely over her second nameday and her fingers already glow when she laughs. She'll be tossing fire about with those hands soon enough, and when her tantrums begin to burn buildings to the ground? When she swings a stick at a friend in a child's game and sends a shard of ice through his ribs? When she gives in to a demon's whims on nothing more than an adolescent's folly? Who would be accountable then, Revka? Who would protect the people she cares about from the storms she's bound to unleash? Those lives, that blood, will be on _your_ idiot hands, you foolish, reckless girl!"

"Would that Silas were a mage so I could follow in Leandra's footsteps," she spat. The seconds of silence between them seemed to stretch into hours until his hand whipped across her face. The force of the slap sent her stumbling back into the stairs. She clutched at her cheek, the metallic taste of blood filling her mouth from the cut now open on her bottom lip, as she glared at him in defiance.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet, steady, and filled with the icy, calculated tone of a man sentencing a criminal to the gallows. "Were that wretched, low born husband of yours possessed of the same curse the two of you inflicted upon your daughter, I would have struck him down long before he set foot in this house." She could see Lilah from the corner of her eye. The elven woman was slowly creeping away from her father's threatening arm and toward the Darktown exit as he seethed at her in his rage. _Good girl,_ she thought. _Keep moving. I only need to distract him for one more moment._

"Spare me your self righteous lectures." She was taunting him now, goading him into focusing his attention on her and not on the maid silently moving away from them both. "You spend every waking moment seething in Uncle Aristide's shadow, and were it not for Mother's good graces, you would have thrown my husband and our daughter both out on the streets long ago for daring to besmirch what little reputation you've managed to maintain. It was made abundantly clear to me from the _moment_ I came into my womanhood that the only important thing about me to you was the faint hope I would ensnare some pompous fool from a powerful family to strengthen our family's fucking legacy. And it was by the grace of Andraste herself that I married my husband when I did, when the chaos of Leandra's hasty departure to Ferelden cloaked the choices I dared to make of my own free will, and that Mother cared enough about her only daughter to shield me from your rage when the dust settled. No doubt I owe her my life, as you seem so quick to endanger those of your own flesh and blood. I cannot imagine the shame it must have brought on your head when your own daughter produced a mage child from her cursed womb, but Maker preserve me I wish I could so I could revel in the taste of your bitter disappointment."

The sword was at her throat in an instant. "You presume too much, you arrogant girl."

She raised her head to meet his gaze, a challenge in her eyes. "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, does it, _Father?_ " Lilah reached the door and slipped into Darktown's alleyways, and Revka ducked under her father's arm and bolted after her.

The stench of the city's filthy underbelly hit her nostrils even before her feet had made it through the threshold. She could barely keep up with Lilah's silent, graceful scamper, but in this moment she was thanking the Maker she had hired the girl to be her ladies' maid. To many highborn women, it would have been a questionable choice for sure, keeping a maid in her employ after discovering the girl quietly breaking into the family's vault one night, but Revka had been around enough Orlesian nobility in her lifetime to understand the value of a quiet arm in the shadows. She had increased Lilah's pay instead, an added price she was more than happy to fill for information. For discretion. Secrets. Lilah was happy enough with the arrangement; her salary was more than enough to keep her from the grim necessity of seeking loose purses to fill her belly every night, and Revka had soon found herself regarding the elf as a trusted friend and confidante.

That trust was certainly being put to the test now, she thought, feeling a sudden pang of worry, but she was sprinting through the dark alleys after the one woman she knew could keep her daughter safe, and so she buried those thoughts and simply ran. Lilah's sudden cry of pain jolted her out of her current set of worries and replaced them with other, more serious fears. Revka rounded a corner and saw Lilah's body sprawled across the stone, an arrow buried in her shoulder. Her daughter was awake now, secured tightly in Lilah's other arm and wailing in terror. Six heavily armored templars surrounded them wordlessly, blades drawn as she knelt at Lilah's side, and even as Lilah handed over her daughter and yanked the arrow from her breast with barely more than a grunt, Revka knew in that moment that they were beaten.

She was not a woman prone to tearful displays, but she felt her eyes filling as a crushing ache wound its way through her chest. _They're going to take her._ The reality of the situation, colder than ice and far more brittle against her desperation, wounded her far worse than her father's hands ever could. "Please," she sobbed, her voice barely a whisper now as she took the child from Lilah's arms and cradled her against her breast. "Please, don't take my daughter."

One of the templars stepped forward and removed his helm. To his credit, his eyes were filled with concern, though right now it really didn't matter. He could have promised her the entire fucking city on a silver plate, and she would have spat in his face for it. "Mistress Amell, I swear on our vows, we will not harm the girl," he said softly. "The Circle is the safest place in Thedas for her as she grows into her powers. She will receive training of the utmost quality. We will keep her safe."

"A gilded cage is still a cage, Ser," she felt herself say, her voice breaking. "You cannot do this to my daughter, please, you cannot." The tears were falling freely now as she clutched at the one person in this world she would trade her very soul for in a heartbeat. "Please," she wept. _Please don't take my little girl._

She remained collapsed onto the pavement long after the templars had departed, her wails of anguish muffled only by her cloak. Lilah ripped a wad of fabric from the bottom of her shirt and pressed it to her chest with a pained groan. "I'm so sorry, Messere. I should have been more careful, watched the streets more-" She trailed off when she realized Revka was beyond understanding words, that her grief was aggressive and single minded and so damn _heavy_ with guilt of her own. She gathered the woman into her arms then despite the sharp pain in her chest and held her, and they sat there in silence until dawn drew its glow from the sky through the scaffolding that separated them from the cliffside and water below.


	2. Chant Day

**Chapter 2 - Chant Day**

* * *

 _9:28 Dragon, Haring_

Solona could never decide what part of Chant Day she hated the most. There were the bells, of course. She would probably find them more appealing had they not been set to ring five times over the course of the day, and beginning them at _sunrise?_ Honestly, it all just seemed so _excessive_. The Maker was intelligent enough to understand how penitent someone was the first time, surely. _Didn't the Maker turn his back on his people or something anyway? What's the point of praying to someone you know isn't going to listen?_

As if that weren't irritating enough, Chant Day meant the chantry - and the floor that contained it - would be full of what was just an absolutely unreasonable number of templars. All day. Evidently beating each other to a pulp in the training yard wasn't enough; no, they also had to join hands with one another and wring out their self hatred together every week. What surprised her more was the number of mages who joined them. _That_ was entirely baffling to her. Why someone gifted with magic would willingly sit through the Chant that all but called them cursed and afflicted was beyond her. Some people, she mused, just got off on self flagellation, probably.

She considered herself fortunate, at least, in that her own mentor was not one to force her to attend the Chants, unlike some of the unluckier apprentices she knew. Poor Neria, a latecomer to the Circle and so _very_ Dalish, had attended every Chant day service with Enchanter Selvin at her heels since she first set foot through the main doors. She maintained good spirits about it, at least, although exactly how she managed that was anyone's guess. First Enchanter Irving, for the most part, gave her the freedom to choose how to spend her Chant Days, and for that she would be eternally grateful.

No, the absolute worst thing about Chant Day began roughly four months ago, when that pious hypocrite Ser Merryn began his rounds on the apprentice wing. "A learned child is a blessing unto the Maker," he'd say with that infuriating grin on his face while he "punished" children for minor infractions by making them kneel on the stone floor and read verses of the Chant until the candle stubs burned themselves out. She had actually tracked down an abridged copy of the Chant in the library and committed a handful of verses to memory for the sole purpose of harassing him after witnessing that, although now she occasionally wondered if it had been wise to step in at all.

"Those who bring harm without provocation to the least of His children, _Ser,"_ she had said to him one day in a conversational tone while eying the boy crying on the floor, "are hated and accursed by the Maker, are they not?" The statement had caught him off guard, as had she when she claimed the boy was wanted by the First Enchanter and led him out of Merryn's sight. She had filed a formal complaint with Irving later, of course, and Merryn was quickly reassigned to the commons floor, but that only meant that going anywhere outside of the apprentice wing meant passing by his insufferable face. And insufferable he had become, especially when he learned the pretty apprentice with the uppity mouth had to pass by the Chantry at the midday prayer bell on Chant Days to get to the alchemy lab for one of her biweekly service shifts. Maker, who had she wronged in a past life to deserve this?

"Hear they're bringing in new blood from the Order today, Amell," he said to her this time, stepping in front of her as she rounded the corner past the chantry doors. "Should we take bets on how quickly you'll run up and spread your legs for them?"

"Kindly fuck off, Ser Merryn," she hissed, sidestepping around him. The rumor was an old one, and to this day she had no idea which idiot had started it. She did have a bit of a reputation among the older apprentices, one she wore with an almost taunting sense of pride, but a templar? A girl had needs, yes, but Maker's balls, just how bloody stupid did these people think she was to just walk up to one and claim them? She'd slit her own throat first.

He cut her off and stepped in front of her again. "Do your mentors not teach you manners here, girl?"

"I thought we both agreed last week I was just a cheap Marcher whore. Do your expectations change so quickly, Ser?" She held his gaze with what she hoped was steel in her eyes, but she was tired. She was so tired.

Someone cleared his throat behind them. "What's going on here, apprentice?"

"A conversation between a lady and her protector, nothing more," she said breezily, turning around and storming past the newcomer with increasing annoyance. The alchemy lab could wait until Thursday. If one more of those fucking self righteous sword slingers bothered her today, she might actually earn herself an equally self righteous execution, and if Alchemist-Enchanter Ariban had an issue with that, then he could very well march down here and tell her himself.

"Is he bothering you?" That voice again, dripping with concern. Not that it mattered. They all faked it. Some worse than others, but at the end of the day they all ended up the same.

She stopped in her tracks and whirled around. "Excuse me?" Here it went. They never stepped in without a price, and now she would definitely be late to her shift. What would this one want? she wondered. _Lyrium, probably, the bastards are mad for the stuff._

The young man in front of her ran a hand through his blonde hair and gave her a knowing look. "I asked if he was bothering you."

"No, I said-" She had barely gotten the words out before he turned his piercing gaze at Merryn.

 _What in the Void was he doing?_ "Ser, what is the meaning of this? The Chantry forbids such untoward conversation towards our charges; surely you know this."

Merryn laughed, but there was no humor in his voice. "Been here a day and you're already out to change the world, are you? Stand down, boy. You'll lose your sympathy for her kind soon enough."

"Be that as it may, I must insist you allow the lady to pass. I'm certain she has somewhere to be, and as you are already at your post for this rotation, I will gladly escort her to her destination myself."

Solona stiffened. They were so predictable. This was the part where they grabbed you by the arm and yanked you to some hidden corner to blackmail you into giving them favors. If you were lucky, it would be a bottle of lyrium or two. If you weren't, well. She glanced at Merryn and his misshapen nose and that creepy smile that never quite reached the eyes. _Cheap Marcher whore indeed._ Maker's balls, she was just too damn tired to fight it today. At least this one was good looking.

* * *

"Is he like this often?" It was only his first day in the Ferelden Circle, but Cullen wasn't an idiot. He knew a situation when he saw one. Disgusting men with their predatory advances were a ubiquitous thing across all of Thedas, it seemed. The apprentice he had been harassing, at least, seemed like someone who could take care of herself. He could tell by how she carried herself, the way she strode with purpose a few steps in front of him, staying just far enough into the center of the hallway to block him from stepping around her. The sight was … too familiar.

It shouldn't have been so surprising, really, to see this kind of behavior here. He'd seen a couple of trainers in Denerim thrown out of the Order for similar acts of vileness during his years as a recruit. What surprised him, and perhaps struck him with a distinct sense of unease, was just how familiar the girl seemed with what had transpired. _I thought we both agreed last week I was just a cheap Marcher whore._

"Is this the part where you tell me to hand over some lyrium or suck your cock or something and you won't report me to the Knight Commander for … fuck, I don't know, whatever inane nug shit you people dream up around here?" She didn't even bother turning around to address him.

"Maker's breath, I … why would you … no, that isn't what I …" He cleared his throat again. "I am glad he did not lay his hands on you, my lady."

She snorted. "Your lady? So quickly? That has to be some sort of record."

"My apologies for causing offense. I truly mean you no harm." He sighed. "I meant it when I said I would escort you, and it has far less to do with my intentions for you as it does my mistrust of people like him."

She turned around then, piercing blue eyes regarding him with the wariness of a cornered animal. "Why?" It was a simple question, but the weight behind it only made the warning feeling in his chest grow tighter. _Why wouldn't he? Why would any other decent person do any differently?_

Cullen shrugged, trying to exude an ease he certainly didn't feel. "Men like him disgrace the Order and everything we stand for. It would have been careless and negligent of me to not intervene."

"Right." Her hair was falling out of a loose ponytail, unruly black waves of obsidian bouncing on her shoulders with every step as she resumed walking down the corridor. They walked together in uneasy silence until she reached the door to the tiny stairwell leading down into the alchemy labs. "Well." She patted the door handle. "This is my stop. I suppose this is where I thank you for … whatever it was you just did and we part ways and pretend this never happened?" He did his best not to gape at her when their eyes met. Her expression, which had been positively vitriolic earlier, had eased into a teasing smirk that made his stomach flutter and his mouth go dry. "I'll see you around, Ser Knight." She winked and disappeared behind the door.

 _What did just happen?_

He tried to shake the entire exchange from his mind as he made his way back to the chantry. Canticles had just ended, and throngs of people were filing out from the chapel doors. He would be expected to take his evening post by the apprentice dormitories in a few hours. _Dormitories she would be returning to later no doubt._ The thought crept to the forefront of his mind before he even realized what was happening, until he caught himself smiling absently at the thought of seeing her again. _No. No, no, no._ This was inappropriate, he seethed silently. Inappropriate, untoward, and just plain _wrong._ And yet. She'd smiled at him. Well, sort of, anyway. _I'll see you around, Ser Knight._ What had she even meant by that? He didn't know how long he'd been standing there lost in thought until someone barked his name.

"Rutherford." He jumped. The stern lilt of Knight-Captain Jaylen sliced through his thoughts like a freshly sharpened blade. "My office."

The first day of his posting at Kinloch Hold was shaping up quite strangely, Cullen thought as he followed his superior through the halls. His mind wandered back to his years growing up in the Chantry, and more specifically, to his mischievous bunkmate with whom he'd shared a tiny dormitory room for the better part of five years. The image of Alistair's face at finding him - meticulous, dutiful, "infuriatingly rule-following-y" Cullen Rutherford - seated in the Knight-Captain's office not two thirds of the way through his first day was positively delightful. Part of him wondered how he'd already managed to start off on the wrong foot here, but he was finding that he, surprisingly, didn't mind as much as he once thought he would.

 _I'll see you around, Ser Knight._ He fought the urge to smile again as he sat down.

"So." Jaylen eyed him from across the room, armored boots clanking softly against the tiles as she paced. She was an imposing woman, well over six feet tall and easily eye level with the Knight-Commander himself. She wore her brown hair cropped short on the top and shaved neatly across the sides. It was a soldier's haircut, one that only highlighted the severity reflected in her cheeks. Her face was all angles and sharp lines, and a jagged scar crossed the length of her jaw, coming to rest right before the soft spots on her neck. "A little bird told me you had a bit of a row with another one of our men today near the Chantry. I have my suspicions, but from the rumors that have been flying at me, I wanted to hear your version before I open that damnable piece of paper that will undoubtedly end up on my desk tomorrow morning."

Cullen gulped. "Rumors, Ser?" There it was, he thought grimly. There was that worry he was expecting when he first entered her office. So much for bravado.

The expression on Jaylen's face remained impassive. "Aye. Something about telling off a veteran knight, then walking off alone with the First Enchanter's apprentice in tow? Care to explain what that was about?"

A renewed sense of anger flooded him at that. And walking off alone with…Maker, did she say the First Enchanter's apprentice? What had he stepped in, he wondered. He fought to keep his own face neutral as he retold what had happened. Repeating Merryn's words made him feel like he needed to scrub some unseen layer of filth from his skin. _You'll lose your sympathy for her kind soon enough._ He considered telling her what the girl had told him on their way to the alchemy labs. _Is this the part where you tell me to hand over some lyrium or suck your cock?_ He fought the urge to wince and kept the last part to himself.

"I see." Jaylen's face remained unreadable, and for a brief, agonizing moment she paused her pacing and frowned in silence. She sat down behind her desk, took out a quill, and began writing something down. "Who were you assigned this morning to oversee for individual mentorship?"

Cullen racked his brain. It had been a younger student. Bella? Beatriz? _Briana, that was it. "_ Briana Sullivan. Year two, under Enchanter Tertio."

The quill never paused when Jaylen spoke again. "Consider her reassigned. You will meet the Amell girl and the First Enchanter in Training Hall A tomorrow morning during individual lessons."

Cullen sputtered. "What?"

Jaylen finally looked up from the stack of parchment on her desk. "I've heard good things about you, Rutherford. Merryn's an ass, and based on his record here I've got no reason to take his word over yours. The last unlucky bastard charged with overseeing Solona's training got himself killed in the last Harrowing, the girl's probably only got a few months before hers, and from what I hear, you're one of the few people we've taken on today who actually seems to give a damn about the mages' well being. She ends up getting assigned anyone less after the last one and the First Enchanter will have my head on a plate, no doubt." She pursed her lips and began writing again. "You got balls, standing up to Merryn like that. Good to see someone else who actually remembers what the Order's about."

"Oh. Um…thank you, Ser." Cullen blinked and tried not to stare. He'd expected some sort of admonishment for his insubordination, an assignment of penance at the least.

Jaylen snorted. "Try not to look so pleased, boy. You clearly haven't seen the girl in action. Got your work cut out for you more than you think." She sealed the parchment with the Order's sigil, then looked back up and frowned. "That's all," she said curtly, waving a hand at him. "Dismissed. Quit your gawking and find somewhere else to be." He didn't have to be told twice.


	3. Lightning Bug

**Chapter 3 - Lightning Bug**

* * *

 _9:28 Dragon, Haring - the following morning_

Cullen didn't know what to expect when he opened the door to the training room he'd been directed to. He'd only ever seen magic done by stern and composed Senior Enchanters who would begrudgingly assist with their training from time to time in return for … what, exactly? He realized then that he didn't know, and had never thought to wonder before. The familiar pang of discomfort from yesterday surged in his stomach, but he forced it down and made himself think of something else.

He knew from his lessons that magic responded to a mage's thoughts and emotions, and that every mage's spell signature was as unique as the mage who wielded it. What would it look like from the girl he'd seen yesterday? She had been so … defiant. Irreverent. So visibly unbothered despite the circumstances of their meeting. The more he pictured her, the more his curiosity burned, and by the time he reached the chamber, he was so distracted by his thoughts upon entering he didn't realize she was alone.

Nothing would have prepared him for the sight that greeted him when he opened the door. She was leaning casually against a desk pushed against one of the walls, seemingly lost in thought, and dancing around her hands and through long and nimble fingers was _fire._ The kind of spells he'd seen before had always been in the context of battle, designed to maim, injure, or kill, and those had been impressive enough, but this… There was no predetermined purpose for what she was doing now. Fire had always been a utility to him, but right now she was just _playing_ with it, handfuls of burning kisses brushing against her skin and curling about her wrists just so, and Maker save him, it took his breath away.

* * *

The flames tickled her fingers as she swirled them around her hands. Solona couldn't remember a time before the magic in her veins; it had always just _been_ , woven into every part of her body and soul, and the thrill of it crackling at her fingertips was unmatched by anything else she could imagine. Especially now that she knew how to keep the fire from burning her, she thought wryly. Her first few tries at fire had landed her in the infirmary so many times the head healer had joked about keeping a bed open there just for her.

Movement near the doorway drew her from her thoughts. "Irving! You're early-" She trailed off. The figure standing there wasn't Irving, and he was _definitely_ not the surly older templar that usually accompanied her lessons. Same armor, same ridiculous purple tabard and entirely too large sword, yes, but blonde curls framed his forehead, and the torches and mage light illuminating the room cast a warm glow on his youthful face. His _familiar_ face.

"Um." He waved awkwardly, eyes scanning the room. "Hello."

She swiped her hands through the air and put the fire out. "Come to rescue me from this mountain of books I'm supposed to read now?" she teased. "I didn't think you'd heard my calls for help. Look at this one. _An Unabridged Treatise on Early Modern Thaumaturgy,_ I don't know if you've read it, but I assure you, I was shrieking in terror."

"I thought…that is…I'm-" he took a deep breath, a tinge of pink creeping across his face. "I'm Ser Braethe's replacement. For your lessons."

Solona burst into laughter. She couldn't help it; he was just so damn _cute_ with his nose flushed pink and those sweaty curls plastered to his forehead. His blush deepened, and for a moment she almost felt sorry for him. Almost. Maker's asshole, he was adorable. "Sorry," she finally wheezed. "The look on your face…Ser Braethe. Right. What did happen to that ugly bastard?"

An uncomfortable look flashed across his face, and they lapsed into an awkward silence. "He…is no longer with us," he said finally.

"About Maker-damned time." The words slipped out of her mouth before she realized she had said them, and she regretted them the moment she saw the look on his face. "Shit. I meant…he…was getting on in years, and it was his time, and…you aren't believing a word of this, are you?"

"It's…it's alright," he said slowly, finally, his expression unraveling from shock to mild surprise to amicable neutrality. "I didn't know him myself. I suppose I was just…"

"Surprised to see me so choked up about it all?" she offered helpfully.

That drew a chuckle from him. "Of course. Yes." He paused awkwardly. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, so soft she almost didn't hear him. "Could you…" he hesitated. "Could you do that again? With the fire?"

* * *

"What, this?" Cullen watched, enraptured, as the girl flicked her hand upward and wreathed her fingers in flames without even so much as a sideways glance. Blessed Andraste. She wielded fire as naturally as breathing. He watched, transfixed, as she pulled the fire from hand to hand like taffy, swirled it in circles around one forearm, and lazily drew a heart into the air before pulling it all back to one hand with a brisk closed fist motion. Suddenly, she snapped, and the fire disappeared into thin air in a shower of sparks.

"That was…incredible," he breathed. "You make it look so easy."

She eyed him quizzically. "You've never seen anyone cast spells before? Isn't that sort of in your job description?"

Cullen shook his head. "I've seen magic before. We all have, it's part of our training. I've just…never seen it like _that._ It looks so natural when you do it, and…" he caught himself and blushed again. "My apologies. I got a bit carried away."

The smile that flooded the apprentice's features was the most genuine expression he'd seen on her face yet. "Don't apologize. I'm flattered." The corner of her lip turned down into a look of concern. "Don't let the Knight Commander catch you with that look on your face though. Anyone ever tell you what he did to Ser Miranda?"

Cullen shook his head. "I don't believe we've met yet."

* * *

 _Maker._ The poor boy was going to get eaten alive here. Solona took a deep breath. Might as well break it to him now. "She's one of the other, er, friendly ones. Mage sympathizers, if you want the word your people use, like actually giving a damn about us is dirty or something. Joined the Order late after her apostate sister was possessed and killed, actually does what she says she believes and looks out for us. Not quiet about it, either, which was a huge mistake on her part, but I don't think she ever learned how to be subtle about anything. Anyway." She fiddled with a loose thread on her sleeve. "Rumors started, like they always do in this ridiculous place. Something about how she and one of her charges were lovers. You know how people get." She tried to hide the look of distaste on her face. It was no secret how much she loathed people who spread false rumors of illicit relationships for gossip's sake. Ten seconds of satisfaction over dinner for a skewed investigation that usually ended up ruining someone's life, and somehow no one seemed to give a damn about any of it. It was all just so disgustingly _Orlesian_.

The thread came free of one crucial stitch, and an entire row of stitches along the cuff of her left arm unraveled with a quiet zipping sound. _Shit._ She wrapped the string around one finger and yanked it apart. "Miranda did care about her. Alindra. The charge. But they weren't lovers. Miranda's got her own wife and two kids out in Tender's Ferry and, shit, we _knew_ Alindra. She was just unlucky enough to remind Miranda of her dead sister, and well. Miranda took care of her, watched over her like a hawk, but when the rumors started, Alindra didn't come out so great for it." She tugged on another stitch before she could stop herself, and the second row came undone too. "Someone hated her just enough to 'witness'-" she gestured quotations with her fingers "-some made up indiscretion, and she ended up getting the brand. Turned Tranquil for corrupting a templar's honor, if you want the official story. And guess who got to be the one to hold her down while they did it?

* * *

Cullen felt his eyes widen. What he'd witnessed yesterday, the story this girl was telling now, what had been implied by some of the Knight-Captain's words…the picture they painted of the Circle was one in stark contrast to the version he'd been described during his training. Surely it couldn't be true, could it? She _was_ one of the affected, perhaps she could be exaggerating, or… No. He couldn't ask her something like that. One look at the expression on her face was enough to know not to touch that with a polearm. "Is she … are they - either of them - still here?"

The girl gestured toward the door. "Alindra works in elemental research. We used to call her Lightning Bug; that girl could sling lightning bolts like a goddamn storm cloud before she was made Tranquil. Still a genius at the theory, as much as it … hurts … to see her that way now. She's got a fancy title though, and most people her age aren't even through their Harrowings. Probably completely makes up for it, right? _Senior Researcher Alindra Vidrae._ I bet she has her own business cards, for all the good they'd do seeing as she'd never think to hand them 's still around, she leads training routines for the rest of you lot these days. You'll probably meet her before the week is up. The powers that be thought forcing her to serve around mages day in and day out after all of that happened would be cruel." She choked out a forced laugh. "Funny place to draw the line there, isn't it?"

"I'm sorry," he heard himself say. He sounded so foolish. Where would there be room for his sympathies for people he'd never met in an institution he'd only recently been sworn to defend for life? And yet here stood one of his charges before him, telling her story with more sincerity and sadness in her voice than he'd heard in anyone in a long time, and all he wanted to do in that moment was gather her in a hug and comfort her. As though such an action would do anything to stem the tide of hurt and resentment such experiences garnered.

The door opened again before he could say anything else. "There you are, my girl. Apologies for keeping you waiting." First Enchanter Irving shuffled into the room with a leather satchel slung over his shoulder. "Good morning, young man," he greeted Cullen with a cheery smile. "I hope you haven't exhausted yourself during your drills this morning." He gestured toward his apprentice, laughter twinkling in his eyes. "This one doesn't hold back, so I daresay we will be relying on you to keep the damage to the furnishings to a minimum, hmm?"

Cullen stared at the old man for a few moments trying to gauge whether or not he'd just made a joke. Surely that was a joke. He prayed it was.


	4. Frost on the Window

**Chapter 4 - Frost on the Window**

* * *

A/N: Content warning for implications of a possible suicide attempt.

-dz

* * *

 _9:29 Dragon, Guardian_

Wintersend. Solona always had mixed feelings about the holiday, the chief of which was in Ferelden winter never really wanted to make up its mind whether or not to end at all for a good month past Wintersend at least. To top it off, no one ever really seemed to know how to properly celebrate a holiday in the Circle, anyway, and it wasn't like the templars ever spent enough time with them to share. Even the Harrowed mages who had experienced festivities periodically outside of the Circle never quite took to any of them enough to really share the spirit with anyone else, and so here she stood, staring up at the snow through the one large window in the grand library for yet another awkwardly fumbled Wintersend celebration in a string of them that went back as far as she could remember.

She wrapped her cloak more tightly around her shoulders to ward off the chill and shot a bolt of flame into the fireplace, an annoyed gesture that earned her some glares when the logs popped loudly and sputtered a shower of sparks onto the floor. She ignored them. Curfew was soon anyway. They'd all be gone in the next hour, and then she'd be alone to spend Wintersend the same way she did every year for the last decade: curled up on the decorative window loft and watching the snow blanket the ground until dawn. Sneaking back to the dorms afterward and spending the next day fighting off the exhaustion were small prices to pay for one night of quiet fantasizing.

"I can't believe you still insist on breaking curfew for something so silly." Jowan's mild, teasing disapproval was apparent in his voice. Solona turned and patted his cheek affectionately.

"Silly, maybe. Restorative? _Absolutely."_

He chuckled and wound an arm around her waist. "How old were you again when you discovered that loose tile in the chantry loft? Seven or eight?" He leaned his head on her shoulder lazily. "Pretty dedicated decade or so of improper behavior for a holiday you don't even really know how to celebrate, don't you think?"

"It's called a book. Maybe you've heard of them." She shrugged out of his grasp and playfully shoved him away from her. "You insufferable ass."

"Who, me?" He frowned in mock offense. "I am no such thing."

"Jowan, go away and let me brood in peace. Go bother Lucien."

"Lucien is … preoccupied." He suppressed a chuckle. "Remember how Barritt couldn't keep his eyes off of him during assembly last week?"

Solona raised her eyebrows at the image of her slim, petite elven friend entangled with someone who, quite frankly, looked less like a Circle mage and more like a brawny templar stuffed into a mage's robe. "Barritt?" She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "Bit beardy, don't you think? Not exactly who I would have pictured as his type."

"Maker, I know," Jowan muttered. "If that man had any more we could probably shave it all and stuff an entire mattress."

"Be a damn sight more comfortable than those bricks they pass off as our bunks," Solona pointed out. "I wonder if-" Her eyes widened. "Wait, how do _you_ know how much hair he has?"

This time it was Jowan's turn to shove her, red-faced and sputtering. "One more word, Amell, and you are going into that fireplace."

She cackled and drew another angry glare. Someone slammed a book shut and huffed out of the library in exasperation. "Yes, that's it," she said under her breath. "Exit so I may commit my dirty misdeeds and do my annual snow gazing without one of you tattling pricks running off to the nearest templar."

"Eloquent, as usual."

She elbowed him. "Hush, you." The candles were starting to flicker out as the rest of the library's occupants packed their things and retired from the hall. She faked a yawn and raised her arms above her head. "Well, guess I'm going to bed now!" she announced to no one in particular, a shimmering illusion of herself quietly materializing from her fingers.

Jowan rolled his eyes. "You don't have to try so hard, Sol. Everyone knows, they just let you get away with it because you have the First Enchanter wrapped around your little finger."

She threw him a scandalized expression. "Shush. I have a reputation to maintain." She winked at him, sent the illusion walking towards the dorms at a leisurely stroll, and darted in the opposite direction.

* * *

The Vespers bells were beginning to chime softly when the night guard relieved Cullen from his post. He frowned as he stretched his cramping legs. Solona was usually back in the dorms by now, but tonight she was nowhere to be found. Her evening schedule was fairly predictable; she spent most of them curled up in her favorite chair in the library, the worn out green one by the fireplace with the rip in the left armrest and the comically oversized mabari paws carved into the legs. It was a truly hideous thing, but she claimed it was the most comfortable chair in the tower despite the number of people who actively went out of their way to avoid looking at it.

During his nights on library duty, he found himself watching her more than anyone else. Something about the way she pulled her cloak up around her knees and burrowed into it, face buried in some tome with a title he couldn't pronounce, was undeniably endearing. Sometimes she would squint angrily and scrunch her nose in frustration, and he'd have to fight the urge to laugh. The way her hair fell into her face, the way she twisted her fingers into it and chewed on the tip of her quill while lost in concentration…these were the memories that helped him pass the time when his guard assignments took him elsewhere. And when he spent his evening post in the dormitory commons, she would wander into the commons thirty minutes before curfew and sit beside where he stood with her back to the wall, her satchel tossed carelessly on the floor beside her.

He always looked forward to their chats. Most of them she filled with irreverent jabs at the Chantry and the Order, occasionally peppering her speech with epithets that would make the Maker himself blush, but he found he didn't actually mind when they came from her. Sometimes she would purposefully say something truly indecent, then needle him mercilessly when she caught him blushing. Once she had simply flopped on the floor next to him without a word, hair all askew and bags under her eyes. "Say something," she'd said quietly without looking up. "Anything. I don't care. Just … fill the silence. Please." He'd recited the Canticle of Trials to her then, and halfway through she'd fallen asleep against his leg with tears streaked across her face. The looks he'd gotten from the other apprentices that night when he carried her to her bunk had been positively murderous, but then his shift was over and when morning came, no one ever spoke of it again.

Tonight, she was conspicuously absent, and as the minutes ticked down to the end of his shift, he began to worry. When his replacement took over his post, he found himself walking toward the library with an increasing sense of urgency in his step. Surely, she'd just lost track of time, yes? Had something happened? He hadn't overheard anyone mentioning clearing her to be Harrowed anytime soon, so it surely couldn't have been that. His footsteps echoed in the dim, empty halls, and he wondered briefly if he could have somehow been responsible for her disappearance. Maker, he hoped not.

The library was deserted this time of night. Remnants of the fire smoldered quietly in the fireplace. The bookshelves loomed upward ominously in the darkness, and he could have sworn he heard whispering from one particularly inky corner aisle. The room was usually cheery despite the relative quiet that befell the place, but he found the night atmosphere here decidedly creepier and made a mental note to never walk through this particular part of the tower by himself at night again. It was also unusually frigid here, he realized, and then a metallic scraping from somewhere above him cut through his thoughts and made him jump clear out of his skin. _It's nothing, Rutherford, get a hold of your self._

And then he looked up.

 _Solona._ Somehow, she had found a way up to the window loft and managed to open the window. The scraping noise had been the loud protesting of rusted hinges as she pushed the panes further outward, and now she was standing on the precipice, swaying unsteadily, her shoes and cloak carelessly discarded in a pile beside her. The wind rustled the hem of her robes around her ankles. Her eyes were closed, a serene expression on her face as the wind blew a light dusting of snow into her face and glued snowflakes to her hair.

He'd heard of this happening, but never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined it happening to her. _No. No, no, no._ "Apprentice?" he said cautiously, falling back on protocol, his steps slow and deliberate as he approached. She either didn't hear him or ignored him entirely. "Step away from the window."

She swayed again, eyes still closed, and panic flooded his wits straight out of him. "Solona, for the love of the Maker, please step away from the window, _please!_ "

"Cullen?" She stepped back and eyed him with a confused expression on her face. "What are you doing here?"

The question caught him off guard. What was _he_ doing here? How did she have any room to ask him that after what she'd been about to do? Had he misread her intentions or had he truly almost lost her? A swirl of emotions coursed through him: anger, indignation, but most of all, fear. "Perhaps I should be asking you that question." Maker. When did his voice get so cold and clinical? How had she even gotten up there? Would she really have… He couldn't even bring himself to finish the thought.

She offered a casual shrug, oblivious to his turmoil. "Appreciating the snow, mostly. Shouldn't you be in bed by now?"

"Shouldn't I be in…Maker's breath, are you insane?" he sputtered. "You're…you're in the library, after curfew, standing in front of an open window hundreds of feet above a lake that's all but frozen over, a window that isn't supposed to even be _reachable,_ and yet you're about to leap clear off of it, and _I'm_ the one that gets the questions? Solona, for the love of…what is going on?"

"Leap clear off of …" Understanding slowly dawned across her face, and much to his confusion and fury, she started to laugh. "Andraste's flaming tits! Cullen, were you honestly thinking I was going to jump?"

"What else was I supposed to think?" he shot back, his voice raised now. "I haven't seen you all day, you didn't show up at curfew, and now you're doing … whatever in Andraste's name you're doing, and I'm expected to just … what, assume everything is alright? Look the other way? Do you have any idea what it would have-"

"Cullen." She cut him off gently, a half smile playing across her features. "Look. Lower your voice before we both get in trouble and get up here; I'll explain everything." She patted the floor beside her. "Next door, in the loft with the bells, there's a big mosaic tile that's loose near the back. Wiggle it open and squeeze through, it'll come out over there behind that statue of Maferath over there." She laughed quietly. "Might want to leave your armor in the chantry, though, if you want to fit. Don't worry, no one ever goes back there outside of high Chantry feast days."

He stared at her incredulously. "You seriously can't expect me to-"

"No," she interrupted, her expression softening. "But I'd like you to."

It was madness. The part of him that was still furious with her, absolutely irate at a level of intensity he didn't quite understand yet, wanted to storm off and find the Knight-Captain immediately and wash his hands of the whole affair. What was she thinking? What sort of game was she even playing right now? He wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake sense into her. What if someone else had found her? How could she brush off his outburst so quickly? _How could she do that to me?_ His thoughts were beginning to jumble together and not make very much sense, but her expression had been so damn inviting. _I'd like you to_.

Against all his better judgment, he ducked into the chantry and began to unbuckle his armor, heart pounding in his ears. He couldn't believe he was doing this. Intervening when a charge was being harassed, making idle conversation with her at his post, these were innocent enough. What he was doing now? He didn't even want to think about how many rules he was breaking for a mage he barely knew. And wasn't he supposed to be angry with her?

A blast of cold air hit him in the face when he made it up the ladder and through the narrow crawlspace. The floor behind the statue of Maferath was surprisingly roomy and sloped upward at a rather haphazard angle until it met flush with the window ledge. He looked up and saw Solona holding out a hand. "Come on!" she whispered excitedly.

 _Damn it._ He grinned in spite of himself. "Alright."

* * *

When Cullen disappeared through the door below her, Solona didn't really expect him to return. She wasn't sure _what_ she expected him to do, exactly, but when his blonde curls popped up from behind the statue, an uncharacteristically mischievous look on his face, she almost fell backward in surprise. He'd even discarded the armor, now dressed only in a linen undershirt and brown leather breeches tucked into a worn pair of hide boots. He looked much leaner without his pauldrons, she observed wryly, and _gracious heavenly Maker the way that shirt hugs his shoulders._ Giddy with excitement, she held out a hand to help him up the wobbly incline. "Come on!" Her fingers brushed the inside of his calloused palm as she gripped his hand and all but hauled him up to the platform by the window. "Look," she breathed.

Snow gathered in little drifts across the frozen surface of Lake Calenhad, powdery soft and glittering in the moonlight. The trees dotting the hills overlooking the lakeside looked like little Satinalia treats the kitchens would make every year, little, green tinted sweets dusted with liberal amounts of powdered sugar. Solona stretched out a hand and let the flurries gather on her palm where she met them with gently spiraling tendrils of frost from her own fingertips. They wove together into a delicate, spherical structure that twinkled as she outlined the entire display in soft blue light. Everything suspended there for a moment, still and serene, and then she blew the ice crystals from her hand, where they burst into a swarm of tiny, crystal butterflies before disintegrating and falling back into place with the snow around it. _This_ was the true exhilarating joy of magic, and for the first time in her life she had someone born without magic to share it with. In this moment, it didn't matter if he was a templar. He could have been the fucking Knight-Commander for all she cared right now. This feeling was so Maker damned liberating it didn't even matter how suffocating the walls of the Circle felt, because the magic humming in her veins was _home_. Slowly, she exhaled the breath she didn't even realize she'd been holding. It wasn't until she felt Cullen squeeze that she realized he was still holding her other hand.

* * *

"Maker's breath." Cullen didn't know how else to respond. During the past few weeks, he'd quickly grown accustomed to feeling the energies swirling around mages when they accessed the Fade, but the shimmer from Solona's entire body was unlike anything he'd ever seen. The magic radiated from her in waves, warm like springtime but with all the intensity of the midsummer sun. She breathed it, _embodied_ it like some long lost elven goddess made flesh, and the sheer force of it made the lyrium in his blood sing. If _this_ was magic, how could it have ever been anything other than a gift from the seat of the Maker Himself? Andraste preserve him, he'd never witnessed anything so beautiful.

She turned and met his gaze with an exhilarated grin, her crystal blue eyes still holding a slight glow from her spell, and without even thinking, he took her face in his hands and kissed her.

* * *

Solona didn't even have time to contemplate the consequences when his lips crashed into hers. He was all hands, clumsy and inexperienced, scratchy, calloused fingers tangling awkwardly into her hair, but in this moment none of it mattered. She leaned into the kiss with her eyes closed, inhaling in his scent: sweat and incense and sandalwood and _Maker I don't want this to ever end._

He pulled away abruptly. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, his face flushing. "I…don't know what came over me-"

Eyes wide and heart pounding, she reached up and kissed him again before he could finish speaking, threading desperate, grasping fingers through soft curls as though letting go could mean the end of her. He was holding her - _Maker, how closely he was holding her_ \- and suddenly nothing else around her even existed at all. She parted her lips gently and teased the tip of his tongue with hers, drinking in the feel of him, the _taste_ of him, the sounds he made at her touch sending shivers cascading down her spine. His hands traveled down to her back and to her waist where he clasped his hands around her and held her, delicately, like one would a pure and precious thing. His lips found her forehead and he kissed her there too, his face lingering briefly near her hair.

 _No. Stop. He's a templar, and this absolutely_ cannot _happen._

Reality came crashing down around her, and she suddenly shoved him away in alarm. "Fuck, I can't do this," she whispered in a panic. She scooped up her cloak and shoes with clumsy hands, slipped into the narrow crawlspace leading to the chantry, and ran back to the dorms as quickly as her feet could carry her.

A gruff voice called out to her in the hallway. "Apprentice, you are aware that curfew was over an hour ago?"

She didn't even stop to look at who addressed her. "Fuck your curfew," she muttered and didn't stop running until she was seated safely in the confines of her bunk. What had she just done? _You kissed a templar._ Fuck. She'd kissed a templar alright, and the soft pressure of his lips against hers had awoken something in her, a fluttering, pooling warmth in her abdomen that was somehow both pleasant and decidedly uncomfortable. _Fuck._

The mattress above her squeaked, and Lucien peeked down at her, green eyes full of concern. "Sol? What's wrong? Are you crying?"

Was she crying? She touched a hand to her face. Yep, she was crying. Fuck.

Lucien clambered down from his bunk and crawled next to her, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her into his chest. "Hey. Come here. What's the matter? Are you alright?"

"No," she whispered into his shoulder. "No, I'm not."


	5. With the Maker's Blessing

A/N: Absolute, adoring, and heartfelt thanks to my dearest dorothiwithani for graciously reading over revision after revision of this chapter - which was a bitch and a half to write for some reason - and providing nonstop encouragement during the many, many bouts of self doubt and existential crises. I doubt I would have finished this chapter without her help.

-dz

* * *

 _9:29 Dragon, Guardian_

It ended up being one of those nights with Lucien crammed next to her on the bottom bunk, squeezed together on the tiny dormitory mattress, the tips of his wheat colored braids tickling her neck when her breathing rustled his hair. She'd been bunkmates with the green-eyed elf since they'd entered their secondary apprenticeships seven years ago. She'd shuffled awkwardly into her new dorm assignment and claimed an empty bottom bunk near the back corner of the room, trying quite hard to remain unnoticed, and then a tattered and patched canvas satchel came flying from _somewhere_ and landed on the upper mattress with a thump. He hadn't been far behind his belongings, a tiny tempest of gangly arms and legs and a mop of frizzy blonde hair that practically launched itself at her with a giddy grin on his face. "I think we're going to be friends," he'd announced confidently, and all she could do at the time was stare with her mouth open.

They'd shared the bottom bunk more often than not since then. The reasons varied from occasion to occasion, of course. Sometimes it was lonely melancholy, on one or both of their parts. Sometimes, the tower was just really fucking cold. A handful of times, in the middle of the night, they'd made brief attempts at awkward adolescent explorations and finally decided that if what everyone said about sex was true, perhaps they simply weren't the ones to do it for each other.

He'd fallen asleep with his back pressed against her chest this time. One of her arms was tucked under her pillow, the other draped awkwardly around his torso, and she idly wondered if there was any way she could adjust her body without accidentally shoving him to the floor. The hand beneath her pillow was beginning to cramp and fall asleep. They were far too old to keep squeezing onto this ridiculous mattress.

"So, _are_ you going to talk to him?" he whispered. She jumped with a start and almost did push him out of bed that time.

"Shit, Lucien, I thought you were asleep!"

He braced his skinny arms against the underside of the top bunk and rolled over to face her. "You keep breathing on my neck. It tickles."

Solona rolled her eyes. "Then sleep in your own bed. No one is making you stay down here."

"You're avoiding the question."

"I was hoping if I avoided it long enough you'd fall asleep and stop bothering me about it."

He tapped her nose with his index finger. "Nope. That isn't how this works. You can't come flying in here crying two hours after curfew, casually mention between sniffles that you _kissed_ the attractive new templar, and then never speak of it again."

She curled her lips into a pout. "Why not?"

"Because!" His eyes grew positively scandalous. "A man has _questions,_ Sol! How soft are his lips? Do you think he's kissed anyone before? Is he a blusher? I bet he's a blusher-"

Solona clapped a hand over his mouth as the heat rose into her cheeks. "No! I'm _not_ having this conversation with you!" she hissed.

Someone made an angry grumbling noise from a couple of beds over. "If you two don't shut it, I'm smothering the both of you."

This time it was Lucien's turn to cover her mouth as she burst into giggles. "Shit," she whispered into his palm.

He leaned in closer, their noses practically touching. "Tell. Me. Everything."

* * *

Cullen listlessly pushed the colorless pile of beans on his plate around with his fork, resting his head in the other hand. He'd gotten to bed late enough last night, although he'd been asked surprisingly few questions regarding his whereabouts, but he'd actually fallen asleep far later than that. The lack of sleep was weighing on his eyelids, but he couldn't stop replaying the events of last night in his mind.

Solona. The way her magic enveloped him when he wrapped his arms around her, the way she folded into him like a matching puzzle piece, her fingers tangled in his hair, her breath warm against his mouth. Solona, who smelled faintly of evergreen and roses, with the magic in her hands, her eyes and her _lips -_ Maker, those lips and the way they met his, warm, soft, and welcoming, teasing, full of want.

And then she pushed him away and ran. Maker, it had to have been his fault. He'd crossed a line of propriety when he kissed her, and he should have known better. He groaned under his breath and pinched the bridge of his nose, shame burning his face.

"Good morning, cheerful." An affectionate punch to his shoulder drew him from his thoughts. Hannah watched him with an amused look on her face, her wiry chestnut hair pulled back in a messy bun that wasn't _quite_ regulation standard. Her nose, adorably crooked, had been broken in not one but two places, leaving her with a perpetual expression of bemusement that was somehow rather true to her personality. He wondered if the nose or the personality had come first. "You look like shit," she offered helpfully when he didn't respond.

"Thank you," he groused, chasing an errant bean across his plate and catching it with the edge of the fork as it began to roll off onto the table. He stabbed the fork into the bread out of curiosity, noting that it was, in fact, as stale as it looked.

Hannah reached over and scooped a forkful of beans from his plate. "What?" she said between chews when he made a face. "You're obviously not eating them." She had a point. He pushed the plate in her direction.

She frowned. "Noooo. I was joking. Don't do that. Miranda's running drills today, remember? I'm not dragging your ass back up those stairs when you faint because you've eaten nothing but two beans and a single crumb of bread. Idiot."

Cullen sighed. He'd known Hannah for all of three months, and her familiarity with him was equal parts endearing and infuriating. "Yes, _mother,_ " he grumbled under his breath, shoving a chunk of bread into his mouth.

"So." She waved her fork in his face. "Spill it, moody. What's got you mooning all over your breakfast?" She watched him expectantly while he finished chewing.

He sighed and pushed the fork away from its precarious position near his nose. "Didn't sleep well," he grunted. "That's really it."

Hannah raised a knowing eyebrow. "Mmhm. Didn't sleep well, or didn't _sleep_?"

"I have no idea what you mean."

She rolled her eyes. "Davos told me you wandered into the men's barracks sometime past midnight muttering some excuse about the chantry and prayers and penance, and if that isn't code for 'I was out fucking' I don't know what is."

Cullen blanched. "I didn't - I was not -" he sputtered.

Hannah snorted. "Busted. It was Fletcher, wasn't it? Word is he tried to sneak in about ten minutes before you showed up. You two really need to work on your alibis."

"What?" he choked. He could feel his face going from white to deep crimson. " _Fletcher?_ "

The smug look of self-satisfaction on her face was almost too much to bear. _Rather another templar than being caught with one of the apprentices,_ he reminded himself, willing (rather poorly) the red to drain from his face. "That's not a no!" she crowed.

"Maker's breath." He grumbled a noise that wasn't quite a word and stuffed the rest of the bread into his mouth, eliciting a hearty chuckle from the woman beside him.

She patted him on the back reassuringly, eyes still twinkling with triumph at what she all but assumed was an admission. "Hey, look, good for you, we all have needs, right? Friendly, got a nice ass, anything past that is probably not my business. Good talk though, see you on the field?" She giggled - an odd noise from a woman who was taller than him by at least two inches and built like a grizzly bear - and stood up from the table. It would be an embarrassing rumor that would be quelled sooner or later, but for once he was thankful Hannah was impossible to argue with; given the truth, this was one falsehood he had no intention of fighting. She waved a mock salute at him and sauntered out of the dining hall.

He washed the rest of the bread down with a swig of water and tried not to choke. The wood of the table felt like a cool slab of stone under his burning cheeks when he set his face down next to his half-finished plate.

* * *

"You." If Jowan raised his eyebrows any higher, they were definitely going to fly straight off of his face, Solona decided.

"Me!" she answered with a cheeky grin she didn't actually feel. Her confidence and bravado was all projection today, because under the surface her insides were _churning._

"You _hate_ going to the chantry," he said, rushing his steps to catch up with her brisk stride.

"True."

"I _also_ hate going to the chantry," he pointed out.

"Also true."

Jowan caught her by the wrist before she could reach the stairs. "Sol, come on, _wait_ a second, will you? Can you at least tell me what this is about?"

"Can I tell you after you help me do the thing?" She mustered up her most apologetic smile.

"You haven't even told me what you need me to do!" he protested.

Shit. She _really_ didn't want to tell him why she needed him to accompany her to the chantry. She still hadn't told him about the incident with Ser Merryn, and judging from his increasing suspicion towards Chantry Loyalists after a brief but poorly handled tryst with one of the Sisters, she wasn't sure she wanted to be around for his reaction. Lucien usually spent his entire Chant day preoccupied in the children's wing, though, and damned if she was about to pull him away from his job for something this frivolous. She didn't even know if Ser Merryn was even posted there on Chant day anymore; Ariban had been surprisingly amenable to moving her schedule around to help her avoid him when she explained her tardiness that day. Although, she thought wryly, it probably shouldn't surprise her that much. The cranky old alchemist had been a loud and proud Libertarian for as long as she could remember and bore less love for the templars than just about any other instructor she'd studied under.

"I just…have to run an errand. To the chantry." Maker's balls, she sounded unbelievably stupid. She wanted to punch herself in the teeth. "I just…" she took a deep breath. "Idontwanttobealoneinthere. Okay there, I said it."

And there it was, that flicker of concern on his face that tightened his brows and left the corners of his eyes creased. _Maker_ , she hated having people worry over her. "Sol?" He settled his hands on her shoulders, brotherly and stabilizing. "Sol, did something happen?"

 _Stand down, boy. You'll lose your sympathy for her kind soon enough._

 _I am glad he did not lay his hands on you, my lady._

 _Could you do that again? With the fire?_

Memories rushed through her mind, bits of words, then images and emotions, and she found herself lost briefly to thoughts of _him._

 _Stolen glances and shy smiles from across the library commons. Eyes full of honey and amber and adoration._

 _Quiet words by torchlight, stone wall behind her back. Her head against his leg, the sharp points of his boot cushioned by her bundled cloak. Whispers of the Chant she'd grown to despise, but the words wash over her this time, soothing balm instead of fire and brimstone, and against all odds she feels_ safe.

 _His hands around her waist, strong and strangely protective in a way that somehow doesn't make her want to slap him away. His kiss still lingering on her mouth, so many hours after he'd claimed it from her willing lips, warmth and sunlight and gentle springtime crashing into her in the middle of a night blanketed by snow._

She blinked and realized Jowan was staring at her now, and oh, _Maker_ was she blushing? Shit. She was blushing. And there it was again, the fear, the crippling feeling of paralysis she'd felt shortly before bolting away from the man who'd kissed the wits straight out of her head. Lucien's advice echoed in her head. _It was a moment of passion,_ he'd reassured her last night, rubbing small circles across her back while she sniffled about all of the things she shouldn't be doing. _People like us, we have to take those when we can. It doesn't have to mean anything to mean something._

He'd quirked his eyebrow at her then, the corners of his lips tugged up slightly in that adorable mischievous grin he had that could melt the ice caps clean off of the Frostbacks. _Besides,_ he'd said matter-of-factly when she voiced her fears of retribution, _you're Irving's golden child, whether you like it or not._ And then, his voice growing more insistent with every word: _No, listen. Memories - memories have power, Sol. You have to make the good ones when you can. You won't be the First Enchanter's apprentice for much longer, so use it like a shield while it's there. And if even one templar here can give you good memories? It's okay, Sol. It's okay to let him._

"Solona, you're starting to scare me now. What are we doing here?" Jowan was shaking her shoulder lightly with one hand and cupping her cheek with the other one. Maker, that look on his face was excruciating. She put her hands over his and brought them down in front of her, a genuine smile spreading across her face.

"Memories." The grin was plastered across her face now. "Good ones." She grabbed one of his bony wrists and all but hauled him up the staircase.

* * *

"Lady of Perpetual Victory, your praises I sing."

Cullen felt himself shivering slightly as he recited the Chant, the Canticle of Exaltations flowing unimpeded from his lips even as the cold air drew in around him. It wasn't often he had the luxury of attending a service unencumbered by his armor, but as much physical freedom as it afforded him, he was beginning to wonder if he'd rather the cold bite of armor against his skin to shield him from the oppressive draft that seemed to plague this entire tower during the winter months.

"Gladly do I accept the gift invaluable of your glory."

Hands clasped together before him, knees resting on the stone, head bowed, he let himself slip into the familiar comfort he found in the Chant. He felt his breathing become steady, the cool well of clarity beginning to pool in the center of his head. The worry that plagued his mind at breakfast and the ache in his legs from the morning's drills faded into the background along with the cold, and the verses flooded his senses with calm.

"Let me be the vessel-" He was suddenly aware of someone reciting the text _right_ next to him.

"Which bears the Light of your promise to the world expectant," a familiar voice murmured in a tone entirely too suggestive for where they were kneeling. His eyes flew open, and from his peripheral vision he could see her kneeling beside him, undoubtedly the perfect picture of penitence and devotion to anyone who hadn't suffered through her nightly rants about the verbosity and repetitiveness of the Chant, the contradictory nature of its contents, and how it "passively contributes to upholding centuries-old systems of oppression" despite all of Andraste's speeches championing freedom. Hearing that same voice reciting those words made his lips twitch upward into the smallest semblance of a smile.

A hand brushed across his leg, hidden by the stone pew in front of them. He froze at the touch, at the faintest trace of vibrating energy pressed against his thigh, and suddenly there was heat flowing through his veins, a blossoming warmth warding off the shivers that threatened to chatter his teeth to pieces. "Should have brought a cloak, Ser Knight," he heard her murmur. "Whatever would you have done if I hadn't come to your rescue?"

* * *

If she hadn't been nervous approaching the chantry, she certainly was now, her heart threatening to pound itself right out of her chest and onto the cold stone floor. It had been a bold move on her part to approach the way she did, but with her cloak pulled up around her ears to ward off the cold, it was relatively unlikely she'd have been recognized, at least not right away. It was common knowledge, after all, that Solona Amell avoided the chantry on Chant Day like a mabari around bathwater.

Jowan, to his credit, had agreed to wait out the service in a pew by the doors instead of bolting as soon as he figured out what her plan was. By the intensity of the scowl on his face, she was positive there'd be an earful to endure later, but right now none of that mattered. Right now, there was only the Chant she hated so much - _unless it was pouring forth from his lips_ \- and the warrior kneeling beside her, breath hitching and body tensing under her touch.

"What are you doing here?" he whispered, though not unkindly. Curiosity, perhaps, laced with confusion.

"Paying my respects to Her Holiness, honestly Cullen, what else does one come to this dismal place for?" Maker, flirting with him was just so _easy._

She heard him snort with laughter under his breath. "If anyone could answer that question, it would be you, my lady."

They lapsed into companionable silence after that. Well, _she_ lapsed into silence. He continued reciting the Chant, and despite all of the horrid verbosity, the lull of his voice was downright soothing. At some point during "beings of oppression paying homage" and something about men of the stone, she felt his hand brush tentatively against hers. She bowed her head further to hide the subsequent smile and blush and threaded her fingers into his instead, their palms pressed lightly into one another with gentle affection.

 _Solona Amell, what the fuck are you doing?_

The dreaded voice of reason in her head crept through and bit into her thoughts, but Solona gritted her teeth and forced it away. Honestly? To hell with anything. Right now, she didn't particularly feel like dwelling on implications and consequences.

 _Shit, when did I get so reckless?_

Jowan would gape at her if she said that out loud, she was absolutely positive. She could hear his voice already. "Sol, you've _always_ been reckless. Neither of us knows how you're even still here."

"…let Balance be restored and the world given eternal life," she heard the congregation intone solemnly. "In these, the words of our Maker and His Prophet, his Lady and his Bride, let our faith be known."

"The Maker sustain you and keep you," the Revered Mother recited. "Andraste watch over you and shine her face upon you through all of your days."

"In these things, let it be known," the congregation responded. As Cullen started to rise, Solona slipped her hand into a pocket in her robes and pulled out the folded piece of parchment she'd been fighting the urge to squeeze this entire time. With a swift motion, she pressed it into Cullen's palm, rose gracefully to her feet, and swept out of the chapel.

* * *

Cullen didn't open the parchment until he was safely alone in a side corridor on the other side of the tower. He felt the smile creep unbidden across his face when he traced her elegant, spidery script.

 _Sorry I ran. Try again?_


	6. Throw Out the Map

_9:29 Dragon, Drakonis_

"Keep that barrier up! He's going to tear right through your defenses if you keep losing focus! Good swing, Lucien, but your ice shot was weak! Come on, kids, _multitask_!"

Solona grinned and lifted her staff to block an incoming blow as Enchanter Grayson clapped and barked commands from the side of the ring, her long brown hair falling out of the loose bun piled on top of her head and lending an even wilder look to her already spirited face. Lucien grunted and brought the other end of his staff toward her chin, but she spun away and fired a bolt of spirit energy that knocked him off balance. "Yield?" she panted.

"Bite me," he gasped. She threw up another barrier as frost blossomed from his fingers and solidified into a swarm of icy projectiles and watched them bounce harmlessly from her skin. He was beginning to wear down; his steps were beginning to falter, the careless mistakes in his form growing more frequent. She pivoted away from a bolt of lightning that singed the tip of her ear and left her hair standing on end. She could feel the threads of energy beginning to solidify at her fingertips, and she continued stepping in and out of the fray as she began to weave them together. The knots started coming together, piece by piece, and finally she threw her hands in front of her and wrapped the invisible tendrils of energy securely around Lucien's arms and legs.

His eyes widened in surprise. "Fucking-" he started to swear, but Solona had already closed the gap between them and swept her staff behind his knees. He raised his hands above his head from the floor, laughing in spite of himself. "Fine! I yield! You win!"

The staff clattered to the ground as she extended a hand to help him up, wiping her face with the sleeve of her other arm. "You even managed to make me break a sweat that time," she teased, kissing him lightly on the nose. He grumbled unintelligibly and swatted her away before dissolving into laughter again. She picked up her staff and followed him to the edge of the room so Jowan and Neria could take their places.

"I'm shit at this," Jowan was complaining, fingertips brushing nervously over his staff grip.

"Oh, hush, you big baby, you'll do fine," Neria chided, bumping her staff into his shoulder. "Just stop thinking so damn much."

Solona sat against the wall and watched her friends square up in the ring. "Do you think Neria's going to go easy on him with Grayson watching?"

"Without Grayson noticing she's pulling punches?" Lucien shrugged. "Probably not. Let's hope, for his sake."

Solana cursed as a stray fireball soared over their heads and exploded against the stone above them in a shower of sparks. "Jowan!" Grayson shouted. "Watch who you're aiming at!"

"Sorry!" he squeaked, barely throwing his staff up in time to block the flurry of light blows Neria launched at him. A weak barrier flickered into place as she sent a handful of energy bolts at him, and he managed to deflect all but the last one, which fizzled out into his tousled brown hair and made him yelp in pain.

"Andraste preserve him," Lucian muttered, resting his face in his hands.

"Jowan, _move!"_ Neria hissed. Jowan jumped and managed to step to the side, but tripped over his staff and barely caught his balance, and the handful of flame he tried to conjure flew wide and missed his target by almost five feet.

"Sorry!" he yelped, ducking another swing from Neria and sprinting to the other side of the ring.

"Use your staff, Jowan!" Grayson barked. "Attack with the focus, defend with the rest of it! Use your legs! Follow through with your steps- Maker's breath. _Hold_." She pinched the bridge of her nose and marched to the center of the ring. "Neria, take a break."

Lucien scooted over to make room, and Neria sat between them, sliding her back down the wall and landing on her rear with an unceremonious thump. "I'm so tired," she complained. "Dread Wolf take that damned prospectus. If I have to parse through one more page of notes on the relative densities of silverite and related metals by myself, I may actually blast a hole in the wall and fling myself into the lake." She ran a hand through her messy hair and grimaced. "Jowan really needs to get himself together. He's been in the clouds lately, and _not_ in a good way. You, ah, wouldn't have anything to do with that, would you?" She peered at Solona suspiciously.

Solona glowered. "Why is everyone looking at me?"

"Because." Neria lowered her voice to a whisper and nodded toward the templars stationed by the exit. "A certain blonde haired human has been absolutely smitten with you, and _somebody-_ " she gestured toward a very flustered Jowan who was desperately trying to keep up with Grayson's footwork "-is beside himself with anxiety over it instead of being the helpful and competent research partner I was originally assigned."

Solona glanced at the door just in time to catch Cullen jerk his gaze toward the floor. "Maker's balls," she groaned. "What did he say to you?"

"Jowan? Or the templar?" Neria winked, and Solona elbowed her in the ribs.

"You're an ass." Solona scowled and picked at her sleeves. The left cuff was beginning to visibly fray now.

"I aim to please." Neria hummed and scratched at a piece of resin on her staff. "I'm sure you don't need me to tell you to be careful with the templar, right?"

Solona put her face in her hands. "Why is everyone so interested in my life right now?" she groused. "Anyway, you should be blaming _him,_ not me." She gestured at Lucien. "The chapel was his idea."

Lucien raised his hands. "Don't pin that on me," he started to defend, before chuckling and twisting one of his braids around his finger. "Okay, fine, maybe do pin that on me. Come on, Neri. Is it so wrong for me to want Sol to have a little happiness in her life?"

"Oi, I'm right here," Solona complained.

"Hey, you're not getting arguments from me as long as I get my research partner back," Neria shot back with a crooked smirk. "Ariban is one grumpy bastard when you don't turn your shit in on time, and I'm not going to keep pulling all-nighters to cover Jowan's ass."

"Don't I know it," Solona muttered. Her thoughts turned to the unfinished essay on practical noncombatant applications of liquid fire that currently sat half-finished on her desk, the paper untouched for the better part of a week now. She'd promised Ariban a draft in the next couple of days, but instead her mind kept turning to the incredibly distracting young man who currently occupied one side of the door to the hall. She sneaked a glance in his direction and felt her face burn when their eyes met for the briefest of moments before he dropped his gaze again. They hadn't spoken since she'd given him the note in the chapel, but she found herself fighting the urge to reach out and touch him when she walked by him now, just a nudge of a foot, a brush of her hand against his. He wouldn't even feel it, really, given the armor he wore, but it didn't stop her from fantasizing about it. She'd imagine standing on her tiptoes to give him a kiss on the cheek, just to enjoy that adorable blush that so easily crept across his cheeks. And then she'd let her hands creep to his back, her fingers finding each strap and buckle of his armor, and-

"Amell. You and Neria, up." The sharp bite of Enchanter Grayson's voice slapped her back to reality. She grabbed her staff and hauled herself back to her feet with a groan. Who was she turning into these days? What a right fucking mess this was.

* * *

"Amell. You and Neria, up."

Cullen watched the two women square up in the ring, staves gripped and crackling with energy. The lighting made the blue in Solona's eyes glitter, and it was all he could do to keep from staring quite pointedly at her alone.

"I still don't understand why the Knight-Commander allows this," Gerrel complained beside him. "Mages, learning how to fight? What's the point, it just makes em harder to kill when we have to track em down, don't it?"

"I don't think you want to continue that line of thought, Ser," Cullen warned, his jaw tightening uncomfortably.

"Oh, right. I forgot. You're one of Miranda's boys, one who told off Merryn a while back." Gerrel glared at him. "Getting a bit too big for them britches, boy. You're as green as they come, so I don't expect you to get it, but you will one day. These robes ain't nothing but trouble in the end."

"They have names," Cullen shot back through gritted teeth.

Gerrel snorted. "Don't bother enlightening me. Bet there's only one name you're interested in, anyway. S'only a matter of time til it slips out of your mouth when you get to tuggin the nug in your bunk." He nudged Cullen with a lecherous grin. "I got three sovereigns on the little redhead knife ear.

"Maker's breath, Gerrel," Cullen snarled. "her name is Neria Surana, and any more racist comments out of you are getting reported directly to the Knight Captain."

Gerrel practically guffawed at that. "And an elf lover too! Oh, you're a right Chantry poster boy, you know that?" he crowed. "See how long that lasts when the blighted runaways start crossing lines in front of your eyes, boy. Turning into monsters. Threatening your family. Burning down barns down with kids locked inside." His voice grew ragged, an edge of hatred creeping into the previously casual timbre. "You'll learn, alright, same as the rest of us."

Cullen fixed his eyes straight ahead and balled his hands into fists to ignore him. _Turning into monsters._ He watched Solona sidestep a sweep of Neria's staff with a graceful spin and fire a pulse of force directly into the elf with a flick of her fingers. Would that be her one day?

 _Threatening your family. Burning down barns with kids locked inside._ Neria stepped into a swing and fired three bolts of lighting through the glass focus set in her staff. He tried to picture the cheerful elf turning those bolts on innocents. The Dalish didn't care much for humans, generally, and Neria _had_ been a latecomer; was her easygoing attitude an act covering something far more sinister? He still found that hard to believe.

Solona threw a barrier in front of her a split second too late, and Neria's onslaught slammed her in the chest and knocked her back into the floor. Alarm flooded him when she didn't move for a moment as Neria and Grayson ran to check on her, but then a strange sound escaped her lips. It took him a few seconds to realize she was _laughing._ Maker, the woman was mad.

* * *

"That," Solona gasped as Neria took her hand and pulled her to her feet, "was _amazing._ Your speed has gotten incredible, Neri, when do you find time to practice?"

Neria giggled and tapped Solona lightly on the head with the focus of her staff. "It's a gift, _lethallan."_

"Good work, ladies." Grayson clapped her hands together. "Neria, Lucien, you're up."

Solona rubbed her finger across the new hole in her robes as she made her way to the sidelines. The shot had singed both the robe and her breastband, she realized with a chuckle. _Oops._ She sneaked another glance at Cullen to see if he noticed, but his gaze was now fixed intently on something directly in front of him. She frowned when she noticed his hands balled into fists at his sides, a visible clench to his jaw now visible in his boyish features, and she couldn't help but wonder what had happened while she had been sparring with Neria.

She plopped down next to Jowan and leaned on his shoulder. "Neria owes me a new set of robes."

He snorted. "Can't you just patch it up with magic like the rest of us?"

"Well, yes, but that's no fun," she whined playfully, tracing the burn mark with her finger. "Maybe I'll leave it. Start a trend."

"Sol, the last time something you did caught on, the stock room ran out of candles and Irving had you scrubbing wax out of people's bedsheets for days."

She scrunched up her nose and poked him on the forehead. "You're just jealous because I think of all the exciting things to do around here."

He sighed. "You know, you could probably do with a little less… _excitement_ these days." He glanced at Cullen uneasily before frowning at her. "Who are you turning into, Sol? You used to rant for hours about how stupid illicit relationships with templars were. What happened?"

Solona scoffed. "Who said anything about a relationship? I just want to get him into a broom closet and see how well he _really_ wields that sword of his. Have him, you know. Guard my flank. Penetrate my defenses." She tried to wink and look coy, but her face just didn't feel into it. Try as she did to sound cavalier, she knew her words were patently unconvincing.

"You are a terrible liar," he said, his face expressionless.

"I'm not lying."

"Mmhm. You're picking at your sleeves again."

She groaned and slumped against the wall. "He's sweet," she grumbled. "And _pretty,_ Maferath's taint, I'm still made of flesh."

"There's something more to it though, isn't there?" he pressed. "Sol, please tell me. We're friends. I just want to understand what you're so willing to risk everything for."

She swatted at him, annoyed. "Well, when you put it like that." Her eyes flickered back to Cullen, who was now watching Neria and Lucien trade blows of spirit energy in quick succession, casting the room in an eerie blue-green glow. Something about him felt…pure? She couldn't quite find the right words, but his reaction to seeing magic was different from anyone else she'd ever seen who wasn't already a mage. There wasn't any fear in his eyes, nor the usual hostility and suspicion. He'd watched her displays with a sense of childlike awe, and for a few moments she could just bask in her gift and forget she was also…

 _Cursed_. The word floated unbidden to her mind, and she squirmed away from it in distaste. She'd shown him the parts of her magic she normally kept to herself, and he'd accepted it without question. He made her feel whole. And part of her now hated him for it, hated the way he made her feel, the way he drew her in and made her willing to put just about anything on the line to taste that feeling of freedom just one more time.

"Sol?" Jowan watched her expectantly, and she suddenly felt intensely uncomfortable.

"I…don't really want to talk about this right now."

She heard him sigh and lean back against the wall. "Alright. I won't push it. But at least promise me you won't be… _too_ reckless about it?"

"Yes, _mother_ ," she muttered, shoving him in the shoulder and pretending away the knot of worry working itself into a bundle in her gut. Maybe he was right to worry. Maybe he could do the worrying for the both of them so she wouldn't have to feel this damnable queasiness that made her want to curl into her bunk and never leave the dormitory again. Maybe they could all fuck off and leave her to sulk in solitude.

She drew her knees to her chest and huffed. This was getting too damn ridiculous.


	7. A Hardheaded Woman

**Chapter Summary:**

Solona should probably accept that unconventional things just ... happen to her, whether she wants them to or not. Cullen struggles with the possibility of one of his worst fears roaring to life. Somehow, they both find comfort in unexpected friends.

* * *

 _9:29 Dragon, Drakonis_

Solona forced herself to avoid eye contact when she passed by Cullen's post on the way to the alchemy lab. She could see him watching her from the edges of her vision, eyes the color of warm honey trained on her with an expression that was probably far too gentle to be legal _._ _Maker_. She balled her fists into her pockets and made herself keep walking. Jowan's words from yesterday kept looping through her mind with that infurating tone of worry he wielded better than any staff she'd ever seen him pick up. _At least promise me you won't be … too reckless about it?_ "Reckless, my ass," she grumbled. "Who's reckless? Not me, I'm never reckless, come on-"

Cullen cleared his throat. "Apprentice, do you have a moment?" Solona turned around and saw him holding out a book, his face now neutral and composed, the picture of professionalism. "You, ah, dropped this. Wouldn't want you missing it."

She took the book, hesitating when she saw the unfamiliar title. "I didn't-" she started to say, but trailed off when she saw his gaze intensify. She coughed and straightened up. "That is to say I … thank you, Ser. I appreciate the concern."

"Of course." He turned away and resumed his post, eyes flickering passively over anyone who walked by. She glanced at a timepiece on the wall. _Fifteen minutes before Ariban expects me to turn in that lab report._ Decision made, she awkwardly tucked the book into her satchel and made her way to the library. Her mind buzzed with questions as she curled into her favorite chair and took the book back out of the bag. She flipped through the pages curiously. It wasn't a Circle tome; it was some sort of training manual on combat forms favoring polearm weapons. "I guess someone was watching a little too closely yesterday," she observed under her breath.

Oh. _Oh._ A slip of paper fluttered out from into her lap. _That can't be what I think it is._

She unfolded it and barely suppressed the smile that wanted to spread across her face.

 _My dearest Lady S,_

 _Thank you for your kind apology. I hope you understand it was not a necessary one, although your admission brought me more joy than I care to admit. In regards to your question, I would be delighted. Perhaps I will pray tonight for guidance on how to proceed._

 _Yours,_

 _C_

 _P.S. Keep the book._

Was he truly suggesting what she thought he was? Or rather, what she _hoped_ he was? She glanced curiously at that gaudy bust of Maferath that hid the passage to the chantry loft. There was, she supposed, only one way to truly find out.

 _Yours._ A warm feeling spread in her chest as she reread the note. She took one more glance at it, the smile finally breaking out across her features against her control, and reluctantly tossed it into the fire.

The rest of the day blazed past her in a blur, but she was ready when night fell. The apprentices' curfew had just ended, the last few penitents were trickling out of the chapel, and Solona slipped behind the confessional into the crawlspace by the loft ladder, her heart pounding so loudly she was almost certain it was audible in the hall. After an excruciating few minutes, an evenly measured stride sounded from the pews, but it was Neria's hushed whisper that filled the space. "Solona, you have to get back to the dorms _right_ _now_." Neria reached into the alcove, grabbed her wrist with ice cold fingers, and pulled her into the chapel proper.

"Neri, what the fuck? How did you even know I was here?"

"Wild guess. They're coming for you tonight," Neria hissed, practically dragging her down the hallway. "For your Harrowing. I overheard Jaylen and Greagoir talking about it when I left the lab late. If you're not in your bunk when they show up, you're going to be in a load more trouble than you normally would for breaking curfew, come _on_!"

 _Shit_. Solona sprinted through the halls behind Neria, mind whirling. There was no way her Harrowing was this soon. Did they suspect something? The timing was far too close to be a coincidence. It had to be a coincidence, didn't it? _One kiss. It was one kiss. They couldn't know. There was no way they could know._

The sound of metal boots on stone sent the two of them screeching to a halt. "Shit," Neria breathed. "I know a back way. Come on." She rounded a corner and yanked Solona into a nearby utility closet.

"Where are we going?" Solona whispered.

"Maintenance." Neria shot sparks from her fingers to knock a grate loose from the wall behind a pile of crates. "The water system in this whole place is wired up with dwarven engineering." She reached into the passageway and lowered herself into the chute with a grunt. "Watch your step there," she warned as Solona followed her down. "The exterior grates are sealed with magic, but the ones that connect inside the tower are actually really easy to access if you know where you're going. I don't really know how the _whole_ system works, but Ariban had me scraping rust filings from this tunnel the other day, and this one happens to lead straight into our dormitory washroom."

"Do I even want to know what that was for?" Solona dropped to her knees into a narrow passageway behind Neria and scrambled to keep her robes from tangling into her legs. She didn't even want to think about how filthy her clothing would be by the time she emerged.

"He didn't really say." Neria reached up and pounded lightly at the edge of a grate above her head, sending sparks along its edges in evenly timed pulses. " _Fenedhis!"_ she hissed. "It's jammed. Hold on." She traced ice around the edges of the grate, then pushed Solona back gently with one hand before enveloping the entire grate in flame and wrenching it loose with a loud crack. She flattened herself against the end of the passage and gestured to the grate. "There's a spare set of robes in my trunk, they'll run a little tight but they should still fit. I'll fix this. Just go!"

Solona gripped the floor above her and hauled herself up. The sound of the grate breaking open had woken surprisingly few of the apprentices, but the handful that did seemed to have rolled their eyes and gone back to sleep. After years of sharing rooms where everyone regularly had had night terrors, she supposed, it made sense that loud noises in the middle of the night no longer fazed any of them anymore. Her fingers danced over the buttons of her robes as she heard footsteps from outside the door. _Shitshitshit._ She threw open Neria's trunk and grabbed a spare set of robes with one hand while shrugging out of her current set. She kicked the soiled robes under her bed, threw the fresh set on the hook by her bunk, and dove into the sheets right as the doors to the dormitory opened.

She closed her eyes and tried to steady her breathing as the footsteps approached her bunk. Cold, armored hands shook her shoulders roughly. "Get up," demanded a gruff voice she didn't recognize as someone gripped her arm and all but dragged her out of bed. She was suddenly extremely thankful she'd already been awake when they came in. Someone tossed her the robes she'd flung on the bunk. "Get dressed. Now."

 _Maker_. A sudden, cold fear gripped her chest. Her Harrowing. It was happening tonight. It was really happening, and she was more distracted tonight than she had been in a long time. She fumbled with the buttons and laces on Neria's robes, tugging slightly as the fabric pulled uncomfortably tight against her breasts. She yanked the laces even tighter in protest and silently prayed no one would notice.

The armored grip latched onto her wrist again. "Let's go," the helmed figure ordered, and pulled her roughly along behind him. She almost pointed out the fact that she hadn't quite pulled her boots on, but they had all but dragged her through the doors and into the hallway before she could make a move to say anything at all. She finally kicked them off in the hall and gave up on wearing shoes entirely. She wondered what she would be thinking right now had she not been warned of the occasion. The thought of the absolute terror that would have probably befallen her made her shudder, and she wondered who had introduced such barbaric methods. And who kept approving them time after time again.

Whoever had her by the wrist roughly pulled her up numerous flights of stairs until her thighs burned from the exertion, her legs quivering even more with every forced step upward. She wondered with a start if this weren't typical protocol for other Harrowings. _It was one kiss._ _How could anyone have found out?_ Her foot caught on the last step, and she fell forward, her shin scraping viciously across the stone corner of the stair. She could still feel the blood dripping down her leg and soaking into the fabric of Neria's robes when she was yanked into the Harrowing Chamber.

If the rest of the tower was drafty on a good day, the uppermost room of the tower was positively frigid. It was a round, wide open space with a tall, domed ceiling lined with ornate stained glass windows. The floor plan was only broken up by a circle of support pillars set a few feet away from the wall. In the center of the room was a small stone bowl propped up on a chest level iron stand and filled to the brim with processed liquid lyrium humming faintly with a metallic ring. The torches on the pillars barely provided enough light to illuminate the space, the moonlight cast oddly colored shadows on the floor through the windows, and the entire situation led to a rather foreboding atmosphere that made her skin crawl.

She looked up to survey the situation and immediately recognized a handful of people in the room, most notably Greagoir in full ceremonial plate with his trademark grimace, and beside him in similarly fancy ceremonial robes stood Irving, who was positively beaming with pride. She had to bite back a laugh at how patently absurd it was to see him look so cheerful among the scowls present on the few templars in the room not hidden by their helms.

And then she saw _him._ Cullen stood off to the side, alone, a few paces closer to the center of the room than the rest of the templars surrounding the space. He carried himself with the stiff, rigid posture of someone trying desperately to not fidget, one gauntleted hand gripping the pommel of his sword so tightly she would have bet her best quill his knuckles were white beneath his gloves. She also noticed that he was looking around at just about every part of the room except directly at her, and her blood ran cold at the implication. Surely _he_ couldn't have been the one to tell them? He certainly never seemed the type to betray someone's trust that way, although she had to wonder how well she really _knew_ him at all despite their numerous late night conversations. _Fuck._ She could feel the sweat gathering in her palms as she forced her legs to carry her to the center of the room.

Greagoir began reciting something about magic being meant to serve man (would the sexism ever cease in this world?) and how magic is both a blessing and a curse (curse to whom, really?) but she was only half listening, paying much closer attention to Cullen from the corner of her eye. He would glance at her every so often when he thought she wasn't looking, a profoundly uncomfortable expression on his face, and at some point he shook his head and began mouthing something to himself. She realized with a slight sense of guilt that she was already beginning to unravel the seams of Neria's left sleeve, the thread she'd somehow worked loose wrapped taut around her index finger. She made a mental note to ask Wynne how to sew a proper hem after all of this was over.

"Don't look so terrified, my girl." Irving took her hands in his and gave her a warm smile. "You are ready. Remember that the Fade is shaped by _your_ will. And you?" He chuckled affectionately. "You are, by far, the most stubborn apprentice I have ever had the pleasure of teaching."

Greagoir cleared his throat. "First Enchanter, the apprentice must undergo this trial _alone_ ," he reminded gruffly.

Irving gave her a grandfatherly wink and squeezed her shoulder. "I have the utmost faith in you. Make us proud, child."

"Remember that, should you fail, you will be put to death," Greagoir said, a grim expression on his face.

"How cheerful," Solona muttered. She noticed Cullen wince, and she wasn't sure if that made her more or less worried about what could have transpired earlier that day. She followed their instructions after that: step forward, lift the bowl, energize the lyrium, and then she took a deep breath and prepared to drink.

The liquid was more viscous than the lyrium potions she was used to imbibing for ritual purposes. She gagged when it touched her throat, ice cold with a sharp, metallic bite, and the second she swallowed, she felt a prickling sensation building under her skin. The world swayed, and she fell to her knees, gasping for air, scrambling to find purchase on the stone floor as reality bent and warped around her. An intense buzzing, ringing noise filled her head, a shrill sound that seemed to bore straight into her skull. She balled her hands into fists against the cold stone. At some point she felt herself slump to the floor, and then the world around her blurred and faded away.

—

Cullen felt the breath leave his lungs when he saw Solona hit the floor. "Is she…do we just leave her there?"

Hannah stepped forward beside him and chuckled, the sound somewhat muffled from beneath her helm. "First Harrowing? And they made _you_ the sword bearer?" She shuffled and adjusted her boot. "Who'd you piss off to make that happen?"

He sighed. "Merryn reported me for fraternization when I carried Tilly to the infirmary yesterday after she broke her leg with that misfired force spell. I know protocol dictates we call for the healers but she was in so much pain." He shook his head. "I couldn't just leave her there."

"Still, bullshit reason to stick you with abomination slaying three months in," she mused. "What'd Jaylen say?"

"Didn't matter. Merryn took it straight to Greagoir. Her hands were tied. And then Greagoir found out about the last three reports from Merryn that Jaylen ignored, and." He held his hands up helplessly. "I got Merryn's assignment tonight."

Hannah tsked in sympathy. "Get shit on for being a good person. Tits to that."

"Tell me about it," he said, trying to keep the shake out of his voice.

She must have noticed his trepidation, because she clapped him heavily on the back, her gauntlet clinking against his armor. "Chin up, brother. At least it's Amell. She's better than some of the Enchanters now I hear. Bet she could knock this shit out in her sleep." She cackled at her own joke and patted him on the head affectionately. "Better watch that scowl before it gets stuck on that pretty face of yours. Might give her a nightmare." She snickered again.

 _Maker's breath, Hannah._ He wasn't sure if he wanted to hug her or punch her in the face, so he settled for enduring her ribbing with a stoic expression on his face instead..

"So," he said finally after a few moments of awkward silence. " _Do_ we just leave her there?"

Hannah hooted with laughter and clapped him on the back again. "Oh, you poor green son of a bitch." She launched into an explanation about Fade dreams induced by energized lyrium concentrate and how moving the dreamer in such a state risked polluting the thaumatic energies holding them there, but his worries grew louder, and he had stopped listening at that point.

He gritted his teeth instead, kept his eyes trained on Solona's body crumpled in the middle of the room, and prayed.

—

Solona opened her eyes. The lyrium song in her head was almost deafening at first, a crystalline ringing that flooded every inch of her body with its metallic hum. Slowly, as the sound died away, she looked around and took in her surroundings.

The first thing she noticed was how particularly spongy the ground felt beneath her feet. It was somehow both dirt and…not? She tentatively tested the substance with her foot, which she noticed still lacked shoes. Hmm. It was probably time to remedy that. She closed her eyes and imagined a pair of boots. Fine leather, she decided, with thick soles and laces that held the shoe together all the way up to her mid-calf. As an afterthought, she pictured with a grin a swirling inscription of leaves blowing in the wind emblazoned in silver along the outer sides of each boot, and then opened her eyes to survey her handiwork, now snugly fitted over each foot with a perfectly cut fit. Maker-blessed tits of Andraste, the Fade was a marvelous place.

Predictably, almost comically so, her little act of showing off drew the attention of a demon that sauntered up to her boldly without even bothering to disguise its form. She rolled her eyes and set off walking down the path that appeared to stretch endlessly before her, pointedly avoiding eye contact.

"An artful display of skill, sweet thing," it drawled at her from somewhere to her left. "Such fine craftsmanship, rivaling the best artisan cobblers in all of Thedas. You certainly wouldn't have trouble finding work outside of the Circle with that lovely creative mind of yours. Have you ever considered running away? Perhaps to Orlais? I hear the nobles there are delighted to turn a blind eye to particularly talented mages in hiding."

Solona bit back a laugh and ignored its rambling. She squinted and saw the ever present spires of the Black City looming in the distance, a constant fixture in any part of the raw Fade, she remembered from her reading. She'd only ever visited manifestations of settings in her dreams, but the mechanics here, at least, seemed to work the same way. She also knew, from overhearing newly minted mages talking about it amongst themselves, that the purpose of a Harrowing was to find a particular demon who threatened with one of the strongest, most deeply rooted weaknesses and destroy the damn thing before it found a foothold into the mind. This one surely couldn't be it. _Shoes in Orlais, honestly, did it even_ try _to read my mind?_

"I could help, you know," it drawled. "Make it so none of the templars could stop you on your way out to freedom and a happier life."

"You're not very good at this, are you?" She didn't even have to look to know the way it bristled at her words, and she imagined her staff into existence a split second before it lunged at her. A quick barrier, a side step, a swing that resulted in a solid and satisfying _thwack,_ and a barrage of energy bolts left the demon disintegrating out of existence. Well. That had been easy enough-

And then she was suddenly in a city square surrounded by blocky stone architecture, facing the front door of an ornately designed manor home. She blinked, confusion blurring her thoughts. _My home,_ she thought distantly as she reached for the door. But that didn't make sense, did it? The Circle was her home…

No. It was _a_ home but it didn't _feel_ like home, not really, not in the same way this place did, with the ivy hanging over the doorway and the worn places on the door handle where countless hands had rubbed down the wood and the mail slot marked with scratches from years of use. This place was old and new, familiar and strange, and so, so inviting. Solona gripped the handle and opened the door.

"My darling summer rose, welcome home!" She was a bustle of skirts and black hair, all blue eyes and pale, freckled skin, and her arms surrounded Solona's shoulders with warmth and need. "Oh, my sweet girl, it is so lovely to see you again." She, like the house, was at once kin and stranger. _Mother_. The word rolled from Solona's tongue, both a question and a prayer.

Something felt off, but the longer she searched her mind for answers, the less her suspicions seemed to matter. Maker be praised, she was _home_ , and the reasons behind her absence mattered less and less the longer she let herself relax into her mother's arms.

 _Revka Amell. Your mother. Your name is Solona, Solona Rose Desmond Amell. This was your home, and beyond those doors, your family._

There was that nagging feeling again, and then a voice correcting her thoughts. _Was, Solona. This_ was _your home._

Solona shook her head. Of course this was her home; since when had it ever not been? Giddy with the joy of homecoming, she let her mother take her hand and lead her into the parlor.

 _This is not your home any longer._ There was that damnable voice again.

"Solona, darling?" her mother frowned, concern creasing the barely formed wrinkles on her forehead. "Are you feeling alright?"

"Yes, I…" she began to say, but finally settled on squeezing her mother's hand. "Please, continue." The words came out a strangled whisper caught behind the lump in her throat.

 _Solona. Walk away._

She gritted her teeth. Surely she was going mad.

"Come, darling, you must see how Lilah decorated your room while you were away! The curtains are the most lovely copper and crimson brocade."

The house had cozy furnishings, a fire crackled in the hearth, and portraits of family members adorned the walls as she followed her mother down the wing to her bedroom. Everything felt so damn domestic and comfortable and _right._ She _belonged_ here.

"Oh dear." Her mother frowned and patted her pockets as they approached the door to her room. "I seem to have misplaced the key. You have one, don't you?"

"Why would I-" Solona trailed off. Her fingers brushed against the brass key nestled on a chain around her neck. Yes, she _did_ have a key, didn't she? Of course she would; it was her own bedroom.

 _Don't let it in._

Solona whipped her head around. "Who's saying that?"

"Darling, you really should lie down. You've had a long journey here, and you're looking rather pale." Her mother pressed a hand to her forehead with a concerned frown. "Go on, open the door and _let me in_."

 _Don't. Let. It. In._ The voice was more insistent this time, tugging and pulling at her ears like that Maker-damned lyrium song-

Lyrium song. _Shit._ That was right; the lyrium song had pulled her into her Harrowing. This was her _Harrowing_ and she was standing in the fucking Fade, which could only mean her mother was…

"Oh, fuck," she breathed, a cold, clammy feeling claiming her insides. She stumbled back from the door and from that… _thing_ that was her mother, was supposed to be her mother-

 _Do you even remember what your mother looks like?_

"Okay, see, you stop that," she said, her voice shaking even as she tried to make herself sound lightheartedly chastising. "You, whoever you are that keeps talking to me, show yourself or fuck off. And _you_ -" she willed her staff into existence and it fell solidly into her hands, where she brandished it at the creature in front of her "-don't get to mess with my head like that. No. That's not…you're not..." She struggled to keep her breathing even, panic sending prickles of sweat beading on her palms. "Get out of her skin," she growled. "Get out of her and get out of my _head_!" She whipped the staff around and jammed the blade forward, closing her eyes just before the sickening crunch of metal on flesh on bone. And then she was falling, falling, and…

Something soft and spongy caught her hands and knees as she collapsed to the ground. She opened her eyes and promptly heaved up the contents of her stomach.

—

Cullen cringed as Solona flinched and shuddered again on the floor in front of him. Sweat drenched her face and soaked into her robes, and her unruly black curls were now little more than a frizzy mess of tangles on her head. So much of him wanted nothing more than to run forward and squeeze her hand, to gather her head in his lap and hold her until the nightmares ended, but this wasn't a simple night terror, and the danger she faced on the other side of those closed eyes was far, far worse. If she failed…

He looked away. He didn't want to think about what would happen if she failed.

Something warm brushed the back of his neck. Hannah had removed her right gauntlet and was rubbing small circles at the base of his skull. "Breathe, Rutherford," she reminded gently. "She's going to be alright."

Cullen tensed at her words but didn't pull away.

"This is normal, I promise," she continued, her voice low and soothing. "Just breathe."

—-

Solona wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and wondered what throwing up in the Fade meant for her body back in the waking world. The demon had felt so solid, so unmistakably _human_ when she stabbed at it, and that squelching crunch… She couldn't get that sound out of her head.

"Interestingly human reflex you have there. You know there's nothing actually in your stomach here though, right?"

She sprang to her feet, staff appearing back in her hand. "Don't come any closer," she warned, twisting her head side to side to look for the speaker. A vaguely spectral form drifted lazily into her field of vision.

"You're welcome, by the way. That thing would have swallowed you whole by yourself." It rippled and begin to solidify into a vaguely androgynous humanoid shape. "I thought the first rule of Fade walking was to not get cocky, no? Bit of an amateur mistake for someone like you."

"What do you want?"

The figure plopped down onto the ground with its legs crossed and leaned back on its hands. "Well, to keep _you_ from making appallingly idiotic choices, for one. You do want to get this over with and move on with your life, I assume?"

Solona shook her head and waved her hands in the air. "No, okay, wait. _What_ are you?"

More features on the figure solidified: shaggy white hair, a soft but thickly-muscled body obscured by a baggy shirt and trousers, broad hands that ended in nimble, slender fingers, and all of it was still pale and translucent like white smoke. It looked her over appraisingly, lips quirked up in a half smile. "Well, that's a rude thing to ask. I'm a spirit. You _have_ heard of us before?"

"I wasn't aware spirits had so much … " Solona gestured wildly, trying to think of the right word.

"Personality?" The cheeky smile widened, and the spirit chuckled. "Yes, that doesn't happen very often, does it."

Solona huffed. " _Who_ are you then? Why are you here? Why am _I_ still here, for that matter? I thought this was all over when I beat the demon. I just killed two on my last count, so unless you want to be the third, maybe you can start telling me what's going on."

"Well. You will be disappointed to learn that your demon is, in fact, very much _not_ dead. The two were one and the same, and truth be told it did play you a bit like a fiddle for a while there. That's where I come in, I suppose." The spirit stood up and bowed with a dramatic flourish. "You can call me Tenacity, and if you don't get yourself together soon, I wager I'm going to push you out of this mess myself. I'd advise not letting it come to that, though, if you don't mind. I don't fancy the thought of possibly getting trapped down in your world. I do rather like it here."

She gaped. "You…what?"

Tenacity prodded at her with their foot. "You heard me; now let's get going. We have a demon to find, after all."

"We. You and me."

They nodded. "That is the definition of we in your language, last I checked."

"Maker's cock."

Tenacity raised an eyebrow in a decidedly human looking gesture and _Maker was that spirit_ smirking _?_ "Nope. Not touching that one."

Solona climbed to her feet and pinched the bridge of her nose in a futile attempt to stem the headache that was beginning to pulse behind her eyes. She could already see the delight in Lucien's face when she caved and accosted him later for his infamous bootleg flask wine, because _Maker_ she was going to be drowning herself in it when all of this was over. "Alright," she said finally, taking a deep breath and summoning the staff one more time. "Let's go."

* * *

*groan*

1\. I planned on making her Harrowing into one chapter. And then I realized I was 4k words into this one and not even halfway through.

2\. I took some obvious ... artistic liberties with Solona's Harrowing. Obviously. And here's why: the Solona Amell in this story is a powerful mage, but she's a powerful mage who's also spent her entire life as an outsider. Even in the Circle, she's different. She came years earlier than everyone else, she spent her formative years under the care of the Senior Enchanters and older templars, and most people outside of her closest friends just see her as "the First Enchanter's favored apprentice." Her baggage here, which the demon preys on, is her deeply rooted longing for a place where she belongs. Also Neria Surana is the Warden in this AU, so I figured we can all assume hers is the Harrowing with the talking mouse that ends up being a creepy pride demon.

3\. Tenacity just. Happened. Solona has a spirit friend now. I regret nothing. :D

4\. Enduring thanks to dorothiwithani for all of her patience and encouragement beta reading this for me and letting me talk at her for hours brainstorming. She's the reason this shit is coherent enough for all of you to read, and I love her so very much for it.

Anywho, leave questions or comments with me below. I try to answer all of them. I'm dismalzelenka on Tumblr if you want to be friends with me and follow all of the casual and not so casual headcanoning I do regarding this AU. And most of all, thanks for following this story with me!

xoxo

-dz


	8. An Offer of Peace

"That stuff in the dream. Er. Whatever it was. With the house and my…mother." Solona pinched at her sleeve and stared at the greenish-grey dirt that littered the path they walked. "Was any of that…you know. Truth?"

Tenacity pursed their lips. "It's possible. Sometimes demons snatch what memories they're able and draw on those. It depends on how vivid your own memories are."

"What about the things you said? Like…my mother's name. Revka." She rolled the word around in her mouth like a piece of hard candy with an unusual flavor. "Was that really her name?"

"Yes," Tenacity said. "I manifested from the strength of your own will, however unintended that was on your part. I do have access to some of your own memories, including those you think you may have forgotten."

Solona picked at a loose knot near the edge of the cuff. "So…in theory. You could help me remember my family."

"Perhaps." They glanced at her with a strange expression. "But not here. You have other priorities."

"Why are you helping me, anyway?"

"Why would I not?" Tenacity looked at her again. "It was your need for assistance that…knit me together, so to speak."

Solona frowned. "But I never…"

"You have more strength in you than you give yourself credit for, Solona. Even if you do not actively acknowledge it."

"Hmm." She felt the seam of her sleeve come undone beneath her nails and hoped she wasn't somehow doing this in the material world too. A thought occurred to her that made her laugh suddenly. "I distinctly remember Greagoir insisting I suffer this trial _alone_ ," she giggled. "Maker. I do love making that man eat his words."

"I live to serve," Tenacity deadpanned.

They walked in silence for a few more minutes, then Solona paused and surveyed their surroundings. "How are we supposed to track this thing down, anyway?"

Tenacity stopped and stared at her incredulously. "You haven't been?"

"…no?"

The spirit crossed their arms and frowned. "Don't they teach you _anything_ in those Circles of yours?"

Solona huffed. "Not all of us _live_ in the Fade, you know. I thought you knew where we were going."

"Well. You really would have messed this up without me, wouldn't you."

"Are you going to help me or not?"

"I suppose I don't have much of a choice, do I?" Tenacity grinned, a ridiculous shit-eating grin that looked entirely too much like Lucien after winning a particularly outrageous bet. "Alright, you. Close your eyes. Think about something you can't stand to lose. Really focus on that. It'll sense how much you'd - theoretically speaking - be willing to give up, and hopefully come running."

Solona raised an eyebrow. "Theoretically speaking. As in, you don't actually know if this will work?"

"Hey, don't look at me." Tenacity was still looking at her with that infuriating expression of half-cocked amusement. "I don't make a habit out of painting targets on myself for demons to find. That one's all on you…you _people._ With bodies. But it should work. As you said, I _do_ live here."

"For the love of…fine," Solona grumbled. "Alright. Shut up and let me think."

She imagined golden eyes touched by sun. Lips, pliant and yielding and _wanting_ , soft skin marked by stubble and scars and the faintest traces of sandalwood and sweat. Kisses full of adoration and desire, hands overflowing with worship and an embrace that feels at once like victory and surrender. He buries his face in her hair, his lips move against her forehead, and-

 _Nope_. Solona slammed the doors on that particular train of thought because Maker's arsehole, whatever it was she wanted, it was certainly not that. Of course it wasn't. It couldn't be. She knew exactly what she wanted from her blushing templar, and at the end of the day _that_ sort of wanting almost always involved a corner closet, nimble fingers, and a discreetly lifted pinch of witherstalk from the apothecary. That sort of want didn't involve tender kisses or flowery euphemisms, because mages didn't get to have those luxuries. That sort of want was fully clothed, full of sharp edges and words like _cock_ and _cunt_ and _fucking_ , and there certainly wasn't any room for-

And then she was in his arms, the stubble of his beard rough against her fingertips, chapped lips brushing against her chin, his breath warm against her face, and suddenly the particular _type_ of want didn't really matter anymore.

* * *

Greagoir studied the ornate timepiece on the wall with a frown on his face. "It's been two hours, Irving. She's shown no sign of waking. This does not bode well."

Irving's face was impassive. "The strongest faces often hide the darkest struggles. She will persevere."

* * *

"Maker's breath, I've missed you," he whispered against her forehead. "All these years, and it never gets any easier." Solona had no idea what he was talking about, but the scent of him was intoxicating, making her head spin with desire and need. She didn't have a response for what he said, so she threaded her fingers through his curls, drew his mouth down to hers, and kissed him.

His tongue teased against her lips, parting them gently and exploring her mouth with a tenderness she was fairly certain she'd never felt before. She flicked the tip of her own tongue against his, and he moaned into her mouth in a way that made dampness pool between her thighs.

 _Mages don't kiss. We fuck._

She pushed the thought from her mind. All she wanted was to lose herself in him, in _this,_ in the way strong arms looped around her back and dug desperate, grasping fingers into her skin. She needed him - all of him - the way his fingernails raked across her back over the thin fabric of her robes, the way his kisses drew the air from her lungs and left her gasping for more, more, Maker please more. Time stopped in his arms and all that mattered was him.

 _Solona. Come back to me._

She was distantly aware the voice in her mind was not her own, but Cullen's fingers were tangled in the laces of her robes, and she suddenly realized she was moaning his name against his lips. The front of her robes fell open as he tugged the laces free. He planted gentle kisses against her jaw, down her neck and chest until his lips brushed against her right breast. She shuddered when his mouth closed around her nipple and let out an involuntary moan when he swirled his tongue around it. The dampness between her legs had blossomed into the most delicious ache, and she pressed her pelvis into him with a whimper. "Cullen," she whispered. "Cullen, please."

 _This isn't real, Solona. Don't let it fool you like this! Snap out of it!_

"Sol, you have no idea how much I missed this while you were gone," he murmured against her skin. "I missed your eyes." He rose and planted fluttering kisses against her eyelids. "I missed your smile." Two more kisses, one on each corner of her lips. "Your body." His lips trailed further down, his fingers working the laces of her robes further until the entire garment was open. "Your taste." He pressed his lips over her smalls and against her sex. "I've missed so much of you."

When he slid a hand underneath the fabric and lightly stroked a finger across her slit, she bucked against him, gasping, swaying on her feet. He withdrew his hand and gripped her hips to steady her before pulling her smalls down to her ankles. Hands back on her hips, he pressed his face into her sex and dragged his tongue along her slit. She whimpered and threaded her fingers through his hair.

 _Solona, for the love of-_ move _, dammit!_

A pale white apparition burst into view and locked a tight grip on her arm, yanking her away. A wave of its arm fastened the front of her robe again, and before she could protest, the blurry and muddled surroundings dissolved into the eerie mottled green of the Raw Fade. "Fuck," she breathed when she realized where she was. Tenacity watched her with a worried expression on their face.

"You lost yourself again," they said. "It's a good thing I found that lyrium vein when I did. I may not have had it in me to pull you out otherwise." Their tone of voice wasn't accusatory, but Solona felt guilt flood her anyway.

"I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough," she mumbled, head hung. "I'd be dead already if it weren't for you."

"Don't you dare do that," Tenacity interrupted. They grabbed her face and turned her to meet their eyes. "You have a remarkably strong will; that I am here at all is evidence enough of that. No, something isn't right. Whatever is toying with you is far more powerful than it should be, and we need to tread carefully to get you out of here alive."

Solona frowned. "But that doesn't make sense…Harrowings are supposed to be controlled, the demon chosen and bound by the Senior Enchanters. They're supposed to test us, not set us up to fail…" She trailed off. Of course. Someone must have found out about the letters, the kiss, the possibility of something _more._ "Oh, Maker," she whispered, holding her face in her hands.

"Don't you quit on me now, human," Tenacity growled. Their voice was equal parts teasing and chastising. Then, they hesitated. "There's one more thing we can try. It's risky, but if it works, you'll kill your demon and get your freedom."

"I'm not going to like this, am I."

Tenacity made a face. "Probably not. I hate suggesting it, and it's a risky plan for both of us, but if it works…"

"Just spit it out already," Solona snapped.

"I need to merge with you, temporarily, here in the Fade. It's not possession, not really, but if we don't time things correctly I could get stuck in your head permanently." They grimaced at the thought. "No offense, but I'm not exactly keen on getting trapped in your world."

Solona sucked in a sharp intake of breath at what they were suggesting. It sounded suspiciously like demonic temptation, and she suddenly found herself doubting the spirit who had saved her life twice now. "This…merging," she managed to say finally through a mouth dry as a desert. "What's it…do, exactly?"

"What any spirit in the Fade can offer," they said with a shrug. "Power. Strength. In this case, willpower. I have a suspicion on who our demon is, and if I'm right…" They trailed off with a faraway look on their face. "Well, let's just hope I'm not right, shall we?"

"How…how do I know you're not just another demon trying to make a deal with me?" she asked shakily.

"You don't. That's the shitty end of it." Tenacity sighed and shook their head. "I won't try to talk you into it if you don't want to. I'm not particularly keen on the chance of getting trapped in your body on the other side of the Veil, either."

Solona pursed her lips and stared at her hands. This went against everything she'd been taught, every instinct in her body, but…

 _I'm stuck here either way, right?_

She took a deep breath and turned to face the spirit. "Let's do it. Tell me what to do."

* * *

"It's going on three hours, Hannah," Cullen whispered, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He'd heard enough about Harrowings from other templars to know the longer an apprentice was under, the less likely they were to come back as themselves. His nerves were bundled into a rock in the pit of his stomach.

Hannah frowned. "Not going to sugar coat it; I'm worried too."

His heart sank. Whatever tenuous hope he'd been seeking from her evaporated, leaving only an ache in his chest that made him want to throw up. He swallowed through the lump in his throat and forced back the tears that were threatening his eyes, focusing instead on the few memories with her he did have. The weight of her head on his leg when she fell asleep during their nightly talks when he was posted to the dorms. The sultry glances she shot him across the room while she was training. The closeness of her body, the softness of her long, black curls, the way she'd smelled faintly of citrus and roses when he buried his face in her hair. Her fingers threaded through his in the chapel as the Chant rang around them. The way she'd melted into his arms when he kissed her. She couldn't…she had to come back.

"You love her, don't you."

Cullen blanched. "What? No, of course not, that…that would be…it would…"

"You don't have to lie about it," she said gently. "Not to me."

He took a deep, shuddering breath. "Yes," he admitted in a whisper. "I do."

"Your secret's safe with me, Rutherford. All we can do right now is pray. The Maker will deliver her."

"I hope so."

She clapped him on the back. "Keep your head up and try not to look so fucking _despondent,_ would you? Have some faith."

"Thanks, Trevelyan."

"Anytime, kid."

* * *

"You ready?"

Solona took a deep breath. "Yeah. Let's do this."

Tenacity flickered, their body turning even more incorporeal. "This might…feel a little strange," they said apologetically. "Sorry."

Before she could respond, an overwhelming cold sensation enveloped her body as Tenacity stepped _into_ her. "Fucking Void, you really weren't kidding when you said _merge_ , were you?" she growled through gritted teeth, falling forward to her knees, hands curling into fists and grabbing at the spongy ground. Her chest felt like someone had encased every organ within her ribcage in ice.

 _Sorry._ Tenacity voice now echoed in her head. _Never done that before. Wasn't even sure it would work, to be honest._

"Are you _serious_?" she screeched. "You could have killed me!"

 _Without my help,_ she _would have killed you._

"She…?"

 _I know who your demon is now. From your memories, the way she sifted through them, it leaves…traces._

Solona tried not to think about the disturbing implications of that statement. "Who is _she,_ Tenacity?" she asked slowly.

 _A demon lord. Lynkhaba, Lady of Regrets. She should never have been summoned. She cannot be bound. Someone in your Circle made a foolish, foolish mistake._

"Alright." She bit her lip, her fingernails scraping against her sleeves again with renewed fervor. "So how do we, ah, _rectify_ this mistake?"

 _You have to break through her illusions on your own. But I can help you this time, because for now, I'm part of you._

"Cheery thought, but how do we get you back out of me before I wake up?"

 _You have to cast the spell as soon as you break free. I can't really teach it to you because it's an intuition spell, but. You just have to channel your focus on the idea of the two of us as separate entities._

"I just have to…Void, Tenacity, you make this sound so easy, but you realize all of this is incredibly easy to fuck up, right?"

 _Cheer up. If you get stuck here, at least you'll be in good company._

"By the Maker's asshole," she grumbled. "All the spirits in the Fade and I ended up with the smartass."

 _Alright, we need to stop wasting time. Can you, ah,_ fantasize _a bit more about your-_

"Okay! That's enough!" she choked, a blush spreading across her face. "And…you can see what I think, can't you."

 _Oh, yes. Quite a fascinating window into the way you mortals interact._

"I hate you," she grumbled. "Grateful for the help, but I really, really hate you."

She felt Tenacity's presence shift in her head. _You might be relieved to know at least that you probably don't have to indulge in any erotic fantasies this time. I think she found us._

Before she could open her mouth to ask a question, her surroundings crumbled into bright blue sky and golden-green fields meeting trees somewhere in the distance. She squinted at the sudden brightness and saw two figures shimmer into shape before her.

"Beautiful sight, isn't it?"

The disembodied female voice was low, gravelly in a sultry sort of way, and coming from all around her, as though it were etched into the very landscape beneath her feet. Solona watched in fascination as she watched Cullen lift up the dark haired woman who ran joyfully into his arms. _Maker. That's me._ Her eyes widened. The image of her was older by a few years at least, her face a bit more freckled and careworn, but she wore a crown of flowers on her head, and her laugh was like music when he anchored his hands around her ribs and spun her around. The way they looked at each other left her heart aching.

"I suppose you don't need me to tell you how much you want this future." The voice had solidified into a singular location, and Solona turned to her right to see its source. The woman standing there was small, thin and unassuming. A gauzy black dress with shoulder-baring flared sleeves billowed around her bare feet, and her skin was white as tallow. Long, fine black hair was loosely piled on top of her head where it cascaded down around her ears and forehead in unruly tufts. "You deny it," she murmured. "I can sense it radiating from you. But why?"

"You know why," Solona said flatly. "I'm a mage. He's a templar. It'll never happen."

"You're an unnaturally _powerful_ mage," the woman corrected. "To withstand two of my fantasies and emerge with your mind intact? Quite a feat. Consider me thoroughly impressed, darling." She twirled a loose strand of hair around her bony fingers and studied Solona with sharp, golden eyes. "I was skeptical when he bound me to this place, but the prize he promised me, well. You were just too good to resist. Yet it seems you've shaken off my shackles not once but _twice,_ and now I find myself at a loss for what to do with you."

She shrugged and raised her hands, palms up, in what she hoped looked like a casual gesture. "I don't suppose you'd be generous enough to let me go?"

The demon - Lynkhaba - responded with a throaty chuckle. "Perhaps. All I ask is that you watch what I would like you to see, then consider the offer I am about to make you. If you find it is not to your liking, I will release you from this place and you can pass your tower's silly little test and go back to your sad little life of pining over freedom and a love you will never truly have."

"Oh, boy, you sure don't mince words, do you?"

Lynkhaba merely smiled primly and gestured to the scene before them. Cullen had dropped to a squat now, and running towards him was - _Maker's breath_ \- a little girl in a linen shift with a head full of long, golden ringlets. Her heart skipped a beat at the implication. "Is that…is she…" she swallowed through the dryness of her throat. "Is she…mine? Ours?"

"Of course," Lynkhaba said, her eyes not leaving the family in front of them. Solona only gaped as Cullen lifted the little girl into the air, her lips curling into a delighted squeal when he twirled her around and settled her snugly against his chest. She looked again at her own likeness, and her breath hitched at the sight of her swollen belly.

"I…I'm pregnant," she choked out.

"Indeed," Lynkhaba said smoothly. "I'm sure you've been made sickeningly aware of the consequences of conceiving a child in the Circle, no? So much so you've long since forgotten that particular want of yours. And yet you're aware of it now. I can feel it, Solona. You ache for a future you will never be able to have in the life you currently lead."

"Are all of you such a depressing lot?" she groused, face in her hands.

"I can sense you've been told my name, as well as the title they've all assigned to me. Do you know why they call me the Lady of Regrets, darling?"

Solona called desperately for Tenacity in her mind, but there was no answer.

"I have a particular talent, you see," the demon continued, unprompted. "I can see the things a person will grow to regret most - don't waste your energy calling on that spirit friend of yours, dear; it cannot hear you in this state - and I can… _arrange_ things to make those desires come to pass. To spare you of future regrets, shall we say."

"How altruistic of you," Solona deadpanned. "I suppose this is where you offer me the world on a silver platter and I fall at your feet begging you to possess me to get what I want?"

Lynkhaba laughed again. "Oh, nothing so _barbaric_ , my dear. I do not wish to lay claim to your body. What do you call those disgusting hybrids? Abominations? What a terrible fate for the both of us. No, my offer, you will find is, quite reasonable. You let me have your magic - all of it - and then you will be free of the Circle, free to marry your sweet young lad without consequence."

Solona narrowed her eyes. "What do you even get out of this?"

"As I said, you are a mage of unusually formidable power. Power that is quite valuable in the right hands. If you desire to be rid of it in favor of a normal life, all you need do is hand it over."

She drew her breath in sharply. "No."

Lynkhaba pursed her lips in amusement. "You don't have to decide right away, my dear." She reached out and grasped Solona's wrist. Her grip was vice-like and ice cold, and Solona gasped as tendrils of frost crept up her arm. "Consider this my calling card, sweet thing. You will know where to find me, should you change your mind."

Solona cried out in pain as a searing pain shot through her left hand. The world began to spin around her, and suddenly she heard Tenacity in the back of her mind, their voice desperate and frantic.

 _Solona! Solona, can you hear me? You have to break the connection_ now! _You're about to wake up; separate us before this becomes permanent! Solona!_

 _Shit_. She closed her eyes and gathered her focus as best she could. She fixed the image of the two of them standing side by side in the Raw Fade and held it as tightly as she could muster. She felt herself falling, felt a sharp tugging sensation like a long thread being quickly drawn out of her, her breath suddenly left her lungs, and suddenly…

Solona opened her eyes.


	9. True Tests Never End

"Maker's breath, she's awake."

The words fell from his lips in awe, relief crashing over him in waves as Solona's eyes fluttered open. She blinked twice in confusion, then rolled over onto her hands and knees and promptly vomited viscous, blue liquid onto the floor.

"Told you she'd be fine," Hannah said from somewhere behind him, but he barely heard her. He'd been briefed on this part before the ceremony started. The body wouldn't purge the lyrium mixture with a demon inside to absorb its power, which meant…

 _She passed. Thank the Maker. She actually passed._

Solona groaned and mumbled something he couldn't hear, and Irving smiled as he handed her a linen handkerchief. "Congratulations, dear girl. How do you feel?"

"Like shit." She coughed and spat more of the blue liquid onto the floor. "This tastes even worse coming back up."

Irving chuckled. "Yes, a universal sentiment it seems."

She dragged the handkerchief across her lips with another grimace. "Now what happens?"

"You get to rest," he said kindly, eyes twinkling. "Your new quarters have been prepared in your absence. I believe you've more than earned it."

Greagoir knelt and extended a hand. "Congratulations, girl," he said gruffly. "I am glad you've awoken unscathed."

"Thank you, Knight-Commander."

Cullen watched as she started climbing to her feet and had to root his feet to the floor to keep himself from running forward to catch her when she stumbled forward, her legs buckling from underneath her. Irving caught his gaze and beckoned him forward with a chuckle. "Come, lad, would you be so kind as to carry her to her quarters? I'll not have her survive her Harrowing only to lose her life falling down multiple flights of stairs."

Cullen caught a disapproving look in Greagoir's eyes, but for once the Knight-Commander said nothing. Solona swatted at him weakly when he hooked his arms under her back and legs. "Get off, I'm not a child," she mumbled, but she sagged against his chest anyway as he straightened up and rose to his feet. He nodded in farewell and made his way to the stairwell.

"Well," she muttered as soon as they were out of earshot, "I don't think that's how either of us planned to spend the evening, was it?" Her expression changed then, and she trailed her fingers down his cheek and leaned her head against his shoulder. "I…was afraid they'd found out, that you'd told them something," she admitted. "I know you wouldn't do that, but…I waited for you. In the chapel. If Neria hadn't warned me, helped me sneak back to my bunk…" She sighed and chewed on her lip, body tensing. "Nevermind. I don't know. I don't even know if that's what you'd planned. It was stupid and impulsive and- "

He silenced her with a kiss on the forehead that elicited a gasp followed by a small sigh and an _oh_ as she relaxed back into his arms. "I wanted to," he said softly. "Meet you, I mean. I was informed of my assignment only moments after I passed you that note. You were occupied the rest of the day, and I was so afraid they would catch you there after hours when they came for you. And the way they shoved you into the chamber-" He trailed off when he saw the blood stain on her robes. Maker, are you still bleeding from that?"

"Probably, but I'm okay," she snorted. "Is it always like that, or do they only reserve the special treatment for the troublemakers?"

He resisted the urge to put her down and hug her. "I wish I knew." He shrugged. "You were my first."

"I was your first, huh?" She waggled her eyebrows at him suggestively, and he felt a blush creeping up his cheeks.

"Maker's breath that's not what I-" He felt her press a finger to his lips a split second before she giggled. It was, quite possibly, the sweetest sound he'd ever heard.

"Shh. I've had a very hard night. Let me enjoy this." She relaxed back into the crook of his shoulder and hummed in contentment. The weight of his worries suddenly crashed around him.

"It was to be me," he whispered, dread clutching at his insides as he spoke.

Her eyes fluttered open. "What?"

"I was the one designated to…to strike the killing blow," he admitted, shame flooding him. He wasn't even sure why he was telling her this, because certainly nothing good could come of it, but he found himself rambling about it anyway. Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to keep anything from her.

"Would…would you have done it?" Her tone was hesitant and suspicious, her brows furrowed, blue eyes filled with an expression he couldn't read.

"I don't…I…" He dimly felt himself mumbling something about _duty_ and _obligation to the Order_ , but he trailed off when he caught her shocked, wide eyed stare. "This…it's dangerous, is all," he stammered. "We cannot hesitate when called to do our duty, and you…"

She shifted uncomfortably in his arms. "I…think I'm okay to walk now, if you can just put me down, that would be-"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean…" He had tightened his grip on her before he realized what he was doing. "Forgive me, I…"

"Cullen, please put me down now." Her voice took on an uncharacteristic edge, and he acquiesced reluctantly, internally cursing himself. How did he always manage to botch up conversations like this? Things were going so well until he opened his mouth. He set her down on the bottom step, thankful at least that they were no longer descending the steep and narrow stairs down from the Harrowing Chamber.

* * *

Solona remembered the time she had been admonished for asking the wrong sort of questions in class. _Some what ifs are pointless and only invite distraction,_ she remembered being told. Right now, she knew exactly what that meant. If she'd kept her mouth closed, she could have continued onward in blissful ignorance of the fact that…

She hazarded a glance at his face as he gently released her onto the step. He was pale and flushed, wringing his hands apologetically as he stood back up, but the sword strapped to his belt suddenly seemed to take up entirely too much space. He was kind and sweet, yes. The attraction was clearly there. And _Maker_ , he was good looking.

And still, the reality of it all bit at her, colder than the frost gathering on her fingertips in frustration. He was still a templar. She was still his charge. His duty still included the sobering possibility of striking her down without hesitation should the need arise. She balled her hands into fists to hide the magic chilled into her palms and struggled to her feet, blinking away tears. Of course this wouldn't be possible. _Fuck_ , she had been such a fool.

Two steps forward were enough to tell her trying to walk was a bad idea. Her knees gave out beneath her and she toppled forward, straight into Cullen's arms as he caught her before she hit the floor. "Solona, please allow me to get you safely to your quarters, at least," he begged quietly.

"Fine," she mumbled. The frost had dissipated, but she couldn't disguise the shaking when he lifted her back up and cradled her against his chest. The steel of his armor was cold, but the way he held her was still so damn _gentle,_ and really, this was all just so unfair. Her thoughts wandered to the image of the little girl with the golden hair, a lump in her throat at the memory. For a moment, the demon lord's voice echoed in her head.

 _You let me have your magic - all of it - and you will be free to marry your sweet young lad without consequence._

She shuddered. But still, was that even what she wanted? Andraste's sake, with her entire life within the confines of this damn tower, how could she even know? And would that be what _he_ wanted? For all she knew, he could just want a quick lay like any of the other templars she'd been propositioned by over the years; who was to say his favor would turn from her the moment he'd wet his cock in her? She grimaced. He certainly didn't _seem_ the type. Then again, he didn't seem the type who would be capable of killing anyone, either, but the sword on his belt and his awkward, stuttered confession clearly said otherwise.

She closed her eyes and chewed on her lip, willing the tears gathering behind her eyelids to go away. She hated this, the way her emotions knotted together and made her heart feel so utterly constricted. Things had been so much simpler before he showed up; she could just avoid the templars as a general rule. The tell-tale sound of armored boots on the stone floors only meant steadying your walk, avoiding eye contact, and going about your business with a silent prayer to the Maker that whoever it was would leave you alone this time.

There had been a time in her life when she'd seen the templars as the Chantry intended, of couse: as protectors, as guardians who looked out for her best interests without ulterior motive. She thought back to her earliest memories in the Circle, of falling sleep in Irving's arms surrounded by the smell of parchment and fresh ink and the peppermint oil in his beard, the feel of her face smushed against his scratchy wool robes. Of Wynne, with the scarf that smelled like elfroot and honey, and of tantrums that began as sudden winter storms and ended with her tripping face-first into puddles of water after the templars quieted her powers long enough to approach her safely. Ser Tarah, with the kind brown eyes and the tightly coiled dark curls that always smelled faintly of coconut, teaching her how to breathe deeply and contain her powers before she even knew her letters. Ser Hollyn, who slipped her pieces of cake from the dining hall when she correctly recited the Chant verses he taught her in his spare time. There had been a time when she trusted them, the knights in their vestments and polished armor that had practically raised her before she was old enough to join the other children in the Circle.

But Tarah eventually left the Ferelden Circle after some very loud, very public differences of opinion with the Knight-Commander. There were rumors she'd gone back home to Rivain, but truthfully who could say? All she knew was that Tarah was gone, and so were the quiet sessions of contemplative meditation that she alone could somehow make so appealing. Hollyn had retired to the Greenfell Chantry shortly afterward, his aging mind finally succumbing to the lyrium madness that eventually claimed the templars in their old age and robbed them of their memories.

She still remembered his last night at Kinloch like it happened yesterday. It was only a few weeks after her tenth birthday, and they'd shared tea in the library during a rare moment of lucidity. She'd told him about how she showed enough promise to be considered for an early apprenticeship, and he'd hugged her and told her how proud he was in that gruff low-town Denerim drawl with a twinkle in his eye. They'd recited verses from the Chant together, because she hadn't quite lost her faith yet then, and Hollyn had a funny way of making her actually believe in the Maker's grace. And then, the carriage to Greenfell had arrived. He'd hugged her tightly and kissed her forehead. "Be good, little bug," he'd said, tousling her hair affectionately. And then, he was gone too. She supposed she should be thankful her last memories of him were as they were, where he remembered who she was and was able to wish her a proper goodbye, but the Circle had still felt emptier after that.

Ser Miranda seemed nice enough, although the incident with Alindra had blown up before she had a chance to have a real conversation. It was a shame; Miranda had seemed like one of the good ones, too, and Maker only knew they needed more people like her here. It was truly frightening how fragile and tenuous any of their positions here felt. One slip-up, one mistake would be all it took, she mused, and then the consequences claimed entire _lives_. Reassignment and transfers for the templars, death, imprisonment, and Tranquility for the mages, and then the world continued along with the same fucked up sense of justice that always seemed to rule in the end.

Who was she to hope the situation with Cullen could possibly end any differently? But sweet Maker, she _wanted_ him, and the thought of him letting her go after spending even a short time in his arms made her heart ache. She hated herself for that, hated how willing she was to turn a blind eye to the fact that he'd been assigned to _kill_ her. Who else would he eventually harm? Jowan? Neria? Lucien, even? The thought made her sick, but even still, she never wanted him to let go.

* * *

By the time they reached the mages' quarters, he was certain Solona had fallen asleep in his arms. Her eyes were closed, her breathing steady, but when he reached her room, he realized her breaths had simply been carefully measured, and her eyes closed to hold back the tears that were beginning to leak unbidden from the corners of her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she whispered finally as he set her down on the bed.

"For what?" He almost cringed at the bluntness of his words.

She gestured helplessly with one hand. "This. Everything. I don't know. I…" she trailed off, eyes cast downward. "I know it's not a good idea but…can you stay? Just for a little while? I don't think I'm ready to be alone yet."

"Solona-"

She waved her hand at him again. "You can always kill me if I get to be too much," she quipped, but her words made him wince despite their lighthearted nature.

"I couldn't have done it," he admitted suddenly.

"What?"

"Killing you. I couldn't have…Maker preserve me, I couldn't have done it." His voice had dropped almost to a whisper at his admission. He had been afraid to admit it even to himself, but she had a strange way of stripping him of his defenses. "I barely know you, yet thoughts of you fill my head every waking hour. The Order forbids attachments for a reason. Truly, my infatuation with you places all of us in danger. Even now, the thought of laying a hand on you is almost too much to bear, and tonight I knew my vows would have meant nothing if the worst came to pass. I couldn't have done it. I couldn't have done it, and had you… _turned-"_

She stared at him, gaping, her piercing blue eyes still wet with tears. Even now, with her face puffy from crying, hair tangled and matted and glued to her forehead with sweat, she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. For the first time he noticed how her robes were pulled unusually taut against her body, accentuating curves he'd never seen on her before under the loose fabric of the robes she usually wore. Her breasts strained against the laces on her chest, the thin fabric of her breastband peeking through a slight part in the ties, and _Maker's breath what am I doing?_ He bit his lip and turned away, heat creeping up his face and down his neck.

Then, she was on her feet, hands on his face, tugging him gently towards the bed with soft lips pressed against his mouth. "Armor, off?" She whispered the question against his lips, fingers already fumbling with the straps on his pauldrons.

There was a small voice in the back of his head warning him against what he was doing, but his head was spinning, full of _her_ , full of the gentle scent of roses and pine mixed with sweat and the cold, metallic tang of lyrics, and the softness of her hands trailing down the back of his neck shoved the last of his doubts away. He'd never stripped off his armor faster, and then he was falling, falling on top of her on the freshly pressed sheets, lips brushing against her forehead, her eyes, her lips, and trailing down her neck as she gasped softly in surprise. _We shouldn't do this._ There it was again, that voice in the back of his head. A part of him knew it was right. This was dangerous and idiotic and foolish, and he may very well have been compromising the safety of everyone around him by pursuing this path, but her very presence made all of it seem trivial in comparison.

This, whatever this was, had already progressed far beyond his wildest imaginings. He'd envisioned stolen kisses in stairwells, batting eyes across the room, sweet and chaste love poems exchanged in halls when no one was watching. But this … he'd seen her at her weakest and admired her all the more for it, and now she was looking up at him, all soft hair and big, blue, angelic eyes, and he suddenly forgot how to think clearly altogether.

He crushed her lips under his, heard her gasp again, the sound sending a flutter through his body. The kiss was different from the one they'd shared in the library, less hesitant and full of need and desperate longing. She wrapped her legs around his body and drew him closer, moaning softly into his mouth, pressing herself against the tight heat in his trousers.

"Solona, I shouldn't - we shouldn't-" he panted. He was certain his heart was about to explode through his ears.

She touched his face, more tenderly than he expected in the moment, that _look_ of hunger and want and need in her eyes, the look that made him sweat and throb and ache for every part of her he could have. "What about you, Cullen?" she asked softly. "What do you want?"

"You," he whispered, the last resolves of his resistance collapsing before those eyes. He tugged at the laces of his shirt, pulling it over his head. She had begun unlacing her robes, but he put a hand over hers. "Wait," he said shakily. "Let me."

She leaned back on her elbows as he deftly undid the straps and buttons holding the robes together, and soon they were a pile on the floor, leaving her threadbare breastband and smallclothes. He felt his mouth go dry. He'd never gone this far with anyone before. _Now what?_

She turned and undid her breastband, throwing it to the floor and wiggling her butt at him playfully. "Help?" she offered, a coy smile playing on her lips.

"To remove your … ah … yes. Alright." He felt his face turn crimson at his fumbling as he hooked his fingers into her smalls and slid them down her legs. Maker, this had to be a dream. She sat up and tugged at his belt. "Your turn," she whispered, pushing him upright, loosening the clasp of his belt and sliding his trousers to the floor. His blush deepened at the full length of his arousal now completely on display.

"No smalls?" she teased, and the tone of her voice sent another shiver through him. "That's surprising, but you won't hear me complain." She curled a hand around his member and stroked it slowly, _agonizingly_ slowly, drawing unbidden sighs and whimpers from his mouth. "Just let me know if you need me to stop, alright?" she murmured suddenly, her tone warm and reassuring. "For any reason. I mean it."

Before he could respond, she had bent in front of him and taken her in his mouth, and Andraste preserve him, the way the soft, wet warmth enveloped him was unlike anything else he'd ever experienced, and he felt his fingers tangling into her hair, eyes closed, as waves of pleasure coursed through his body. "Solona," he whispered suddenly, a different kind of need welling up inside him. "Solona, wait." He withdrew himself from her mouth, difficult as it was, and leaned her gently back down on the bed. "I want to…" the words felt clumsy and heavy in his mouth, but he swallowed and forced them out anyway. "I want to… _know_ you."

"I would like that," she murmured, understanding in her eyes, a blush spreading over her pale cheeks. _Maker's breath, she was exquisite._

He kissed her again, her tiny frame beneath him, their skin touching - Maker, their skin was _touching._ The taste of her mouth was extraordinary, the way her teeth nibbled at his lips sending shockwaves down his spine that made his cock twitch with need. He let his fingers trail down her body, exploring every tantalizing curve, reveling in the gasps and sighs his touches drew from her. He suddenly felt embarrassingly overwhelmed at how little he knew of what he was doing. That he have the right to touch her like this, unskilled, untested hands allowed to caress the glorious handiwork of the Maker himself…

"Please, Cullen," she whispered, her voice husky and unsteady as she caressed his cheek. "I want you to fuck me."

 _Maker, please don't let me make a mess of this._

He lined himself up with her opening and let himself sink into her, an involuntary groan of pleasure escaping his lips as she clenched around him, warm, wet, and welcoming. "Solona," he murmured, and then he kissed her again, their lips crashing together in pure desire as he moved his hips in rhythm with hers.

Her hands were tangled in his hair, her breathing unsteady as the sweetest moans and sighs escaped her lips. "Oh, Maker," she gasped, and then he felt her magic blossom and envelop them both. It was unlike anything he could have ever imagined. He felt his skin tingling, warmth surrounding every inch of him, and Maker, the lyrium in his blood felt like the sweetest fire as her magic sang to him, as she called his name softly, breathlessly, with such unbridled _need._

The sensations mounted, intensifying, magic swirling in the air around them, until there was nothing else but _her,_ her body glowing with a thin sheen of sweat, her hair tangled with loose strands plastered to her forehead, her breathing erratic as his name fell from her lips like the most fervent of prayers. "Cullen," she whispered, clinging to him, nails raking gently across his back. "I'm- I'm going to-" she trailed off, and he felt her clenching around him, rhythmically squeezing against his cock, her body tensing as her fingers dug into his skin. He came undone then, grasping at the sheets around her, utterly enraptured by the feel of her, the heady scent of her - sweet roses and pungent evergreen mingling with the musk of her sex - making his head spin. And her eyes, brimming with affection - Maker's breath, those beautiful blue eyes were turned on _him_ \- and everything around him ceased to exist but her.

They laid together in silence for a few moments after, his arms around her, her head nestled into the crook of his shoulder. "That was … really nice," she murmured sleepily into his chest. He ran his fingers over her tangled curls and kissed the top of her head, committing every detail of this moment to memory. She trailed her fingers in lazy circles around his chest. "I wish we could stay like this forever."

"I have to go back to the barracks eventually."

"Yes, but." She snuggled into him and draped her arm over his chest possessively. "Not now."

He noticed a strange black mark on her wrist and turned her hand over curiously. "What's this?"

"Hmm? What's what?" She squinted at her wrist with sleepy eyes. "I don't really know. Must have been something to do with the Harrowing. I'll ask Irving tomorrow." Was he imagining it, or did her body tense slightly when she spoke? He frowned and tried to put it out of his mind.

"Hey," she mumbled, tangling her legs into his. "You smell nice. Kiss me again."

This kiss was slow, lazy and affectionate, her tongue teasing gently against his lips until they parted. He savored the taste of her, the feel of her skin against his, the way her soft, nimble fingers danced delicately against his chest. She trailed a hand down his stomach and brushed her fingertips against his cock, and he felt himself growing hard again. "One more time," she whispered, crawling on top of him and kissing his nose. She trailed her lips down his face and nestled her face in his neck, swirling her tongue gently around his pulse point and nipping at the skin until he felt pinpricks of pain that only made him want her more.

"Wait," he protested reluctantly. "Marks, we shouldn't-"

She shushed him with a sly grin and brushed her fingers against his neck. He shuddered in pleasure when the magic bloomed from her fingers and enveloped his skin in a tingling warmth. "I'm rubbish at healing mostly, but this trick was way too useful to not practice until I got it right."

He widened his eyes incredulously. "Useful? How often do you…"

She smirked. "You should pay more attention, Ser Knight. Everyone's kissing everybody around here." She nipped at his neck and ran her tongue along the edge of his earlobe. "And I do rather like kissing _you_ ," she purred into his ear, and it was all he could do to bite his lip to keep the moan contained in his mouth.

"I thought you were tired," he whispered between involuntary gasps of pleasure.

"Are you complaining?" she teased, and suddenly her hand was back on his cock.

"Maker, no."

She pumped him slowly, catching a pearl of pre-cum with her thumb and coating the head of his cock with slick. "Tell me you want this," she murmured against his neck. "I want to hear you say it."

"I do, I want- ah, _Maker_ \- I want this, I want you, Maker, Solona-" Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he was babbling incoherently now, but between the slow tease of her teeth and tongue against his collarbone and the rhythmic stroking of her hand on his erection he forgot how to be self conscious of anything.

"Good," she whispered as she lined herself up with him. "Because I want this, too." And then she sank onto him until he was sheathed inside her entirely, and it was all he could do to keep his eyes open, but seeing her close her own in pleasure as she rolled her hips against him was worth any effort.

She leaned forward into him and kissed him again, and he reveled in the way her breasts felt against his chest, the way her messy curls fell and tickled his face as she giggled against his lips in delight when he ran a hand reverently across her cheek. And when she fixed her gaze on him, those pale blue eyes brimming with wonder and tender affection, he felt the whole world grind to a halt around him. She was both heaven and sin, he was falling to his knees at her altar in exaltation, and her glow encompassed them both as she rocked against him murmuring his praises into his lips.

He wasn't sure who came first this time. She rode him to ecstasy, her magic shimmering and sparking the higher they climbed, and then she was smothering him with a kiss so full of need he thought his own lips would burst into flames right then and there. "Cullen," she moaned. "Oh, Cullen, you're mine, you're mine and I'm yours, I'm yours until the Void claims me, Cullen, _fuck_ -"

She clenched and quivered, and he felt the sheets rustle beside him as her fingers balled the fabric into fists. "I'm yours," he echoed, forehead pressed against hers as he thrusted back up into her jerkily, his own pleasure claiming him over the edge. "Yours as long as you'll have me, Solona, Maker you're so beautiful, I'm _yours_."

She collapsed, spent, against his chest, eyelids heavier with exhaustion now than they'd been all night. "You're a dream," she mumbled into his chest as he gently stroked her hair. "You're a dream and I don't ever want to wake up." And then she drifted off, arms curled possessively around his torso and making it infuriatingly difficult to extricate himself from her. He finally managed to roll her off of his chest and onto the bed, and with some awkward maneuvering he somehow managed to tuck her into bed without irreparably messing up the bedding.

He was dressed and armored in minutes, suddenly keenly aware of just how long he'd spent in here. He kissed her on the forehead and squeezed her hand. _I love you_ , he almost said, but he choked the words back before they found his lips. "Sleep well, love," he said instead, planting a row of kisses along her hand as well. "I'm so proud of you." He watched her for a few more minutes, until he was certain she was deeply asleep, and then reluctantly slipped into the hallway.

* * *

Solona woke up the next morning with a pleasant ache between her legs. She yawned and stretched lazily, appreciating the sunlight streaming through the tiny windows directly above the tower's characteristically high ceiling. A smile played on her lips as she recalled the events that ended the previous night, and she realized she no longer cared about the trepidation she'd felt before their coupling. _Yours. Yours as long as you'll have me._ Sweet Maker, the way he said her name. _Yours._ She rolled out of bed, sheets wrapped around her to ward off the cold, and shuffled to the mirror by the washbasin.

She noticed the mark on her wrist as she reached out to splash water on her face, and her heart skipped a beat. She traced it with her finger, two vertical lines through a circle with a diagonal slash running through the entire image. Dread began building in the pit of her stomach. _Consider this my calling card, sweet thing,_ the demon had said as burning agony lanced up her arm. Just thinking about her unsettling appearance made the rune glow slightly around the edges, and she clapped her hand over it in alarm.

 _If you desire to be rid of it in favor of a normal life, all you need do is hand it over._

Her time with Cullen flashed through her mind, and it was all she could do to keep from doubling over the privy sick to her stomach right then and there. _I'm yours_ , she'd said in a fit of passion, _yours until the Void claims me._ The impossibility of the claim made her throat clench, and the tears that sprung to her eyes were too much to hold back. She backed up and abruptly sat down on the mattress, hand over her mouth, and then both hands were over her face and she was sobbing, each heaving breath only intensifying the ache in her chest.

For the first time in her life, she understood what true temptation meant, and all she wanted in that moment was to reach out and grab it. The rune on her wrist flickered to life at the mere thought, and all she could do was curl into bed, muffling her frantic cries in her pillow. Her mentors had been right all along, she thought dully. True tests never did end.


	10. All the World Is Mad

"I'm sorry, _what?"_ Solona gaped at Irving, her fingers practically pulling the cuff of her robes off. The candlelight in Irving's office cast flickering shadows that played tricks on her eyes, and for a brief moment she wondered if her hearing had become equally untrustworthy.

"Pack a bag," Irving repeated, an amused look playing on his face. "The Knight-Commander has requested your presence on a trip to Denerim this week. You're to meet Enchanter Ellaria, Ser Trevelyan, and the Knight-Captain at the main entry at ten bells tomorrow morning."

Solona blinked, not entirely sure she'd heard correctly. "Why…why me?"

"Greagoir and I have discussed the… _unique_ circumstances of your Harrowing at great length, my girl," he said gently. "He was quite impressed at your resolve in the face of such a powerful adversary. Many of our enchanters would not have survived what you went through."

"I'm surprised he didn't think I made it all up," she muttered darkly.

Irving chuckled. "You give him far too little credit, my dear. His heart is in the right place, despite the way he must seem sometimes. Besides." He patted her on the shoulder. "We were almost relieved there was a reason you took so long. It was quite unexpected."

She barked a curt laugh. "That's one way to put it."

His gaze was soft, grandfatherly, and oddly unnerving. Solona shifted awkwardly under its weight and forced her hands into her pockets when he spoke again. "How are you doing, really?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"When were you planning on telling me about the mark?"

The question wasn't accusatory, and when Solona finally unfroze herself long enough to hazard a glance at his face, his expression was still kind, no judgment in his eyes.

"I…" She fumbled. To be perfectly honest, she had spent the last few days pretending it didn't exist in the hopes that it would disappear on its own, but when she pulled back her sleeve, it was still there, as dark and distinct as ever.

"Solona," he chided. "In all these years, have I ever given you cause for mistrust?"

"No," she mumbled, eyes fixed firmly on the floor. She felt like a small child caught in an idiotic lie.

"I'm not upset with you, girl, only saddened that you felt this burden was yours alone to bear."

Shame flooded her face at both his words and the memories that talking about the mark seemed to stir in her. Memories that directly preceded the mark, and then what had transpired _after_. Desire - sudden, sharp, and painful - for a life she would never lead pooled heavily in her chest until she thought her very ribcage would explode from the pressure. And the way he'd called her name, reverent and so full of _need_. Her face reddened even further as she begged the Maker to let her sink into the floor.

It wasn't until Irving drew her into a gentle embrace that she realized she was crying. "There now," he said softly, rubbing gentle circles into her back.

"You're not going to ask me what she offered?" she sniffled.

He shook his head. "No, child. I would not ask it of you, nor would I expect an honest answer if I did."

"Thank the Maker for that," she mumbled. And then, "How long have you known?"

He cocked an eyebrow at her as she pulled away to study his face. "Are you certain you wish to know?"

"I don't know." She squinted suspiciously. "That sounds like a trick question." Her eyes swept over his office as she fought to calm her nerves, balling her hands into fists and digging her nails into her palms. "Maybe. Yes. Yes, I do."

She avoided his gaze again as he answered. "A certain young templar came by the morning after your Harrowing. He was quite worried about you."

 _Shit._ Solona gulped and tightened her fists. "He…was, was he?"

"I didn't ask how he came by this information, or why he seemed so distraught by it." Irving's words were deliberate and carefully measured. "I assume he noticed it on the way to your quarters, am I correct?"

"Yes," Solona mumbled. She chewed on her lip, every second of silence filling her ears with the sound of her own heartbeat.

"I will not pry into your affairs, dear girl, if that is what troubles you. I have faith in your judgment and discretion, and that is all I will say on the matter."

She exhaled a thin stream of air through her mouth, only just realizing she'd been holding her breath. "Thank you." It was barely above a whisper, and she wasn't entirely sure he'd heard her at all. When three curt knocks sounded on his door, she practically jumped out of her skin.

"Come in," Irving called, robes rustling as he stood up and bustled to the door.

"First Enchanter, the item you have requested has been completed. I hope the quality is satisfactory." The familiar monotone of one of the Tranquil floated through the doorway. Solona shuddered. How Irving seemed so unfazed was beyond her. Did one really ever get _used_ to the fear of becoming one of them? The Tranquil seemed content enough with their lot, though…was it truly such a punishment if the ability to feel regret or remorse is removed entirely? The question only made her stomach churn harder.

Irving had quite the opposite reaction from hers, perking up instantly at the announcement, and Solona stifled a laugh when she imagined Irving as an overeager Mabari puppy. "Just in time! Thank you, Researcher Teresa. We appreciate the work you do for us."

Researcher Teresa. Solona swallowed the lump that suddenly replaced the laughter in her throat. Researcher Teresa had been Apprentice Teresa less than a year ago, and a close friend of Neria's. She tried to imagine Lucien or Jowan speaking that way and fought to keep the bile from rising in her throat. Neria avoided the Tranquil like the plague, and suddenly Solona understood why. She made herself look anyway.

Teresa looked normal enough at first glance. Soft brown hair fell around her shoulders, olive toned skin healthy and vibrant. Even her eyes, at a quick enough look, seemed the same emerald green. She'd long suspected Teresa and Neria had been more than just friends from how Neria described her eyes. _Like staring into the forest after the rain._ But the look in Teresa's eyes, or rather, the lack thereof, made Solona's skin crawl. They carried a sharp indifference the old Teresa never had, and the musical lilt was completely gone from her voice. In its place was a muted monotone that couldn't be more opposite the vibrant sunburst brand on her forehead. Solona felt her stomach heave and took a deep breath to hold back the nausea.

"Thank you, First Enchanter." Teresa finally bowed her head in farewell and turned to leave. "Be well."

Irving beamed as he closed the door and held out a leather wrapped package. "It seems they finished in time for us to give you a going away present."

She arched an eyebrow in what she hoped looked like suspicion instead of a poor attempt to mask the feelings of panic and disgust that suddenly threatened to overwhelm her. "What's the occasion?"

If Irving noticed, he made no such indication. "I took the liberty of commissioning this for you after Ser Cullen explained what your mark looked like," he said with the exuberance of an academic half his age. "There is some - albeit limited - knowledge on the particular demon you encountered, and we had some of the Tranquil enchant a wristband to counter the rune's magic."

She eyed him, concern still clouding her features, and opened the package. The air exited her lungs in a small gasp when she saw what it contained. The _wristband_ , as he'd described in such a utilitarian manner, would have been more aptly described as a delicate bracelet, an intricately forged thing of silver set with several tiny sapphires arranged like leaves around tendrils of metal bent to look like vines. She slipped it onto her wrist, wide eyed, and uttered a soft "Oh," as the ceaseless buzzing she hadn't even noticed coming from her arm finally quieted. The agitated energy spiraling from the rune suddenly calmed into nothing, and for the first time in days she didn't feel the whispers in her head threatening to swallow her whole.

"It's beautiful," she breathed. And she really meant it, too; never in her life in the Circle had she owned anything so lovely.

"Teresa has truly outdone herself this time, hasn't she? The silver has lyrium folded into it, and the stones are enchanted with a localized disruption field." The old man looked positively giddy. "Designed to look like royal elfroot vines in bloom. It should serve nicely to keep the mark from causing you trouble without drawing undue attention."

Solona rubbed at her wrist and studied the bracelet. Some of the sapphires glinted as they caught the candlelight. "Thank you," she said for the second time, still feeling pointedly undeserving of everything she'd been given today. The image of the little girl with golden curls still pinched at her thoughts, a tiny viper in her mind trapped with no foreseeable way out, and she held in the urge to squirm in discomfort.

She stood shakily instead. "I should, uh, go pack?" She cursed the uncertainty in her voice. A large part of her didn't feel like a Harrowed mage yet. That part of her was still Apprentice Amell, marked by her name even here where background wasn't supposed to matter. A cast off noble daughter, too much a mage to actually have a family but too much a noble to find much family among the mages. Too old to justify hiding from the world but too young to face what was beyond the door to her chambers without trembling like a sheet of paper caught in the wind. Being Harrowed was supposed to be an honor, but she only missed the sense of companionship she felt in the apprentice dormitory. Here, she was a mage now, and instead of gaining a family as they so often claimed, she felt more alone than ever.

"Of course, my dear," was his only reply, amicable but brief. He gave her another one of those damnable grandfatherly smiles with the twinkly eyes that used to make her feel safe but now only made her want to shrink into her boots. She nodded politely, grabbed her satchel, and slipped through the door, which closed with a creak behind her.

* * *

The templar commons was deserted save for the two other recruits playing a heated game of chess on the other side of the hall. Cullen found his mind wandering as he watched them, faces crunched into tight grimaces as their pieces clacked across the board. He watched their moves with growing interest. The one on the left was attempting to play with some semblance of strategy but was playing far too carefully for his moves to be effective. The other didn't seem to have any sort of strategy in mind at all and was playing with the sort of reckless abandon that made him remember his own floundering during his earliest attempted matches with his sister, who had thoroughly destroyed him at every opportunity.

A smile flitted across his lips as he thought about his family, and he didn't notice Hannah's repeated attempts to get his attention until he felt a tight grip shaking his shoulder.

"Shit, Curly, you're distracted today," she teased, affectionately fluffing up his hair with her free hand.

He bristled at both the ridiculous nickname she'd concocted for him and the way she effectively undid his attempt that morning to tame his unruly blonde curls with a single swipe of her fingers. "Must you call me that?" he grumbled, trying in vain to flatten his hair back down, but once the curls popped free, it seemed no amount of wax would hold them again. He sighed heavily and leaned back on the bench in resignation.

"Only until you learn how to fucking relax on your day off." She plopped onto the bench next to him, entirely too close for comfort, and leaned a knee against his leg as she unwrapped a half eaten sandwich. "Come on," she said between noisy mouthfuls. "You don't have guard duty for an _entire twenty-four hours._ Wanna go for a tumble on the Spoiled Princess later?"

Cullen opened his mouth briefly, then closed it again. "Hannah, what does that even _mean?"_

"It means," she said with a crooked grin, "that you need to come out and have a pint with the rest of us grunts before people start mistaking you for a Chantry sister." She pointedly avoided his glare and ruffled his hair again. "Besides, I'm going to Denerim tomorrow with the Knight Captain, Ellaria, and your little mage sweetheart. Figured you'd want to kiss me goodbye."

"Maker's breath, Hannah, why must you-" he trailed off, comprehending what she said. His eyes widened. "Solona is going with you?"

Hannah smirked. "Thought that would grab your attention. We're off to pick up some noble prat before he sets his mum's skirts on fire. Exciting, right?"

He shook his head, confused. "But why Solona?"

Hannah shrugged. "She's a powerful mage _and_ a noble's daughter. The Knight-Commander wants her there as 'proof' that life in a Circle isn't the end of the world for someone from a good family. Mind, her family's a terrible example. Her mother went a bit mad after they brought the kid here, now the family name's worth dirt in Kirkwall last I heard, so I hope this family we're visiting does about as much or less research than Greagoir did. Should be an interesting trip, either way."

"And you're there because…?"

"Oh, sweet Rutherford." She patted his cheek affectionately. "I'm a noble's daughter too, haven't you paid attention to anything I've told you?"

He stared at her, not entirely sure how serious she was being. With Hannah, you never really could tell. "No, I. I don't think you ever quite mentioned that."

Hannah chuckled and jumped to her feet, curtsying with a flourish made triply absurd by the standard issue tunic and trousers she wore, emblazoned with the insignia of the Templar Order. " _Lady_ Hannah Trevelyan of Ostwick, Ser Rutherford. All I desire is your hand in marriage, blah blah inheritance, something something heirs, lineage, dowry, etc. My favorite topics of discussion."

He couldn't help but laugh at her antics. The thought of Hannah - the brash, rude, foul mouthed soldier with a heart of gold - being shown off prettily in a gown at some society gala somewhere was quite possibly the most ridiculous thing he'd ever imagined. "You, in a dress? Now that, I would pay to see."

Hannah winked. "Stick around and you might see me in even less." Cullen felt his cheeks turn bright red at her over the top flirting and tried to cool his face with the backs of his hands. He expected more teasing at his lack of response, but she simply sat back down, somehow more unceremoniously than the first time, and resumed eating her sandwich, speaking between bites. "Anyway, this family is supposedly ridiculously important and their strategy for avoiding scandal is to flaunt it like some great honor. So they're sending two fancy former ladies of the court-"

She trailed off and admired the remains of her sandwich appreciatively. "Maker, _fuck_ , what do they put in these?"

"Hannah."

"Oh, right." She shoved the rest of the sandwich into her mouth and continued after a few chews, "-two fancy former ladies of the court to stand there and look pretty and display the 'exemplary lives of noblewomen who went on to serve the Chantry' and all that." She quoted with her fingers in the air as she swallowed the remains of her meal with a noisy gulp. "Put on a pretty little dog and pony show and ensure the kid gets to come back with us without hurting anyone's feelings. Sounds like a dream, doesn't it?"

Cullen snorted. "I would rather be torn apart by a pack of mabari."

"Hah!" Hannah clapped him on the back. "Sullen Cullen _does_ have a sense of humor."

He barely heard her jibe as he stared at the floor in thought. "How long will she… _you_ be gone?" He felt the heat creep into his face again. Hannah would trade him mercilessly for his slip up later; this much he knew with ironclad certainty.

"Two weeks, probably. More if things don't go smoothly." Hannah's expression was serious and surprisingly sympathetic. "You should go find her before we leave tomorrow."

 _You should find her-_ Maker's breath.

She grunted when elbowed her in the ribs. "Don't say that so loudly!" he hissed, looking around to see if anyone heard. The only other occupants of the room - the two men playing chess - remained absorbed in their game and made no indication they'd heard anything. Still, he felt the anxiety rise just the same as the reality of his situation began to sink in.

Oh, Maker. Not only was he involved in an inappropriate relationship with one of his charges, he had _lain_ with her. Twice now. Surely the entire Circle would know within days, and then he would be harshly punished, and she would be…

He forced himself to swallow through the tightening in his throat. Her fate, should such a thing come to pass, wasn't something he wanted to thank about.

"Oh, Cullen," Hannah sighed. She kept her distance this time but squeezed his shoulder in reassurance. "Breathe, my friend. No one else is around. No one heard. You will be alright. And I have your back on this, I swear it. Besides, she's already Harrowed, and if what I hear is true, she's also quite the asset to this Circle's research. She will come out just fine, no matter what happens. That I can assure you."

From anyone else the physical contact would have made him profoundly uncomfortable, but somehow from Hannah it was genuinely soothing, and eventually he felt the sense of panic quelling as he slowed his breathing again. She had a strange way of practically reading his mind when he was troubled around her, so her words probably shouldn't have come as a surprise, but he found himself wondering once again how she managed to figure out exactly what it was that worried him.

"Why would you put yourself at risk for me over this?" he asked finally. Hannah was a good friend, but at this point she'd take the fall with him if he and Solona were ever caught together.

She laughed with a distinctly unladylike hoot and clapped him on the back again. "Because, dummy. We're _friends_. Have you never had a friend before?" She shoved at him lightly and shooed him off of the bench. "Now get up, go find her!"

* * *

Solona had only barely left Irving's office, completely lost in thought, when she collided squarely with something cleared her throat awkwardly as she looked up. "I'm so sorry, is there something I can…" She trailed off when she found herself looking up into a very familiar pair of amber eyes.

"I've been looking for you," he said softly, a smile playing on his face.

"Oh," she breathed. In the two weeks since her Harrowing, they'd shared stolen kisses in hidden corners and behind bookshelves, and he'd even visited her quarters again, much to her surprise. Their coupling had been quick then, fully clothed, against the wall, and full of clinging touches and desperate kisses spurred on by the ever present fear of getting caught. She couldn't deny finding a certain thrill in that, too. Cullen was, if nothing else, a welcome distraction from the aching monotony of life in the Circle, and she practically welcomed the risk with open arms. Part of her worried about his fate if they were discovered, but his lips against her skin had a funny way of silencing her concerns.

Before she had time to say anything else, he'd grabbed her by the wrist and all but dragged her into a nearby storage closet, locking the door behind him with a faint _click._ "Cullen, what-" she started to say, but the rest of the words fled her mind the second his lips crashed into hers.

"I missed you," he whispered finally.

"Fuck, me too."

She looped her arms around his neck and stood up on her toes as he kissed her again, trailing his lips down her jaw and nipping lightly at her neck. His stubble scratched gently against her skin, and she stifled a moan against his shirt when his tongue grazed her pulse point. She closed her eyes and marveled at how easy it was to lose herself in him, sandalwood and leather filling her senses as she breathed in deeply against his neck. How many times had he kissed her now? And he'd been inside her twice. _Twice._ She thought back to other trysts she'd been a part of. There never was a twice before. Twice meant you liked them enough the first time to go again, and that always led to dangerous territory.

She dimly realized he'd stopped kissing her and simply buried his face in her hair, strong arms drawing her closer and squeezing her against his chest. _Dangerous territory_ , a voice in the back of her mind warned. Kisses were all good and well, but what they were doing now implied _feelings,_ and that alone was terrifying. Feelings were fantasies, a luxury reserved for people outside of the circle. Feelings had no place here, in this gilded prison where loneliness was wielded like a weapon to keep you cowed and compliant. Feelings were _dangerous._

Solona knew deep down that this had long since progressed past dangerous. Every adoring gaze and tender caress hammered it home, the nauseating idea that feelings had already happened long before that night they'd confessed as much to each other in the throes of passion. _I'm yours. Yours till the Void takes me_.

He was whispering it now, fingers winding through her hair and stroking her cheek as his lips moved against her forehead. "Yours," he murmured. "Always."

 _Fuck_. She already knew what she wanted to say, and it was beyond frightening when the word slipped from her mouth. "Always," she whispered into his shoulder in agreement, heart hammering in her chest.

She couldn't take it anymore. The intimacy of the moment was at once exhilarating and nauseating, and she could feel the terror pooling thickly in her stomach. Pleasure, she thought dimly. Pleasure was good. Pleasure was familiar. She knew how to handle pleasure. She slipped a hand between them and grazed her fingertips against his length, already hard beneath his breeches. His breath hitched when she stroked him gently through the fabric. She sank to her knees and fumbled with the ties of his trousers, slipping them just loose enough to free his cock from its confines. He gasped when she stroked him and swirled her tongue around the head.

"Solona, you don't have to-"

She ran her tongue along his shaft before she answered. "Let me," she whispered. "I want to." His cock twitched when she took it in her mouth, her hand pumping lightly at the base. She slid her hand down to cup his balls as she slowly eased him into her mouth entirely, her nose brushing against soft golden curls as she inhaled the musky scent of his arousal. He groaned softly at her touch as she pulled her head back, her tongue dragging under the shaft until she released him with a soft pop.

"Maker's breath, Solona," he moaned, tangling his fingers into her hair. She licked the bead of pre-cum that had gathered at his tip and teased the underside of his head with her tongue.

"Still think I don't have to?" she teased.

He groaned and shuddered in response. "Oh, you are wicked."

"Am I?" she smirked and took him back into her mouth, pumping in earnest this time, coating his length with her saliva and his own arousal. His breathing quickened with her movements until he was panting, eyes closed, thrusting gently into her mouth in time with her motions.

"Yes," he mumbled, and she felt heat course through her core at the sight of him, fingers clenched in her hair, completely at her mercy.

 _You could use him like this. To escape._ The thought floated to her mind, and she almost choked. _Fuck. No. What the fuck. No!_ Oh, Maker. She was having conversations with herself in her head with a cock in her mouth. _Andraste's ass._ She forced herself to focus and ran her nails lightly down the inside of his thigh instead, and the sound she drew from him then sent a fresh wave of dampness pooling between her legs. Cullen was making those sounds above her. Sweet Cullen, her innocent Chantry boy. Her lover.

Her templar sweetheart.

 _No, no, no, don't think about that._

"Solona, I won't last much longer-" he gasped, but she interrupted him.

"Come for me, love," she crooned, then sank her mouth onto his shaft again, matching the rhythm of her hand to her mouth. She cupped his balls lightly with her free hand. Soon, she felt them tighten, his body tensing, and then he was spilling into her mouth with a muffled groan. She glanced up and saw that he'd buried his face in the crook of his arm. Resisting the urge to smile, she swallowed every drop, swirling her tongue around him one last time before letting his member slip from her mouth. She tucked him back into his breeches with an affectionate pat on his thigh.

He grabbed her beneath the shoulders and hauled her to her feet for another kiss, his mouth seeking and desperate. She expected him to recoil from the taste of himself on her tongue, but it only seemed to stoke the flames of his desire for her, and he kissed her with the wild abandon of a man starved for the heat of her lips on his. They tangled and touched and explored, until finally the need to breathe pulled them apart. She stared into his honey gaze, his eyes brimming with affection she'd never seen in any of her previous partners.

Yes, this had long since barreled past dangerous. She needed to break things off, needed to remind him of the risks and how nothing they had between them was worth the consequences.

"I think I'm in love with you," she blurted out instead. _Fuck._ Why had she said that?

"And I, you," he murmured softly before leaning into capture her lips with his one more time, and she suddenly knew exactly why.

Her entire life had been a long experiment in profound loneliness that even her friends never could adequately sate. The voice in the back of her mind was always there, always taunting her about the life she could never have, but here in his arms, for the brief moments they were able to steal, the voice was blissfully quiet. She was lost, she realized, utterly lost in him, in his boyish enthusiasm and pure adoration. She was lost, and there was no turning back.

It frightened her, yes, but moments like this made her wonder if she would rather stay lost forever anyway.

"I'm leaving tomorrow," she said finally, finding his eyes with hers in the dimly lit darkness.

"I know," he said, fingers carding gently through her hair. "Hannah - Ser Trevelyan - told me."

She felt her eyebrows raise in surprise. "Did she now?" _Does she know about us?_ she wondered.

"She was the one who told me to find you today."

Solona stiffened and pushed away from him. "You _told_ someone?" she hissed.

"It's not what you think," he murmured softly, recapturing in his arms with ease. She huffed but let him draw her back against him. "Hannah is my closest friend. She thinks you're good for me."

"Must be a shit templar, then," Solona grumbled. She felt him chuckle behind her, low and rumbling in his chest.

"She has said that about herself before, yes." He tightened his grip around her and trailed kisses down her forehead to her nose. "She also swore to me to help keep our secret safe."

Solona wasn't convinced. "Why the fuck would she do that? She works for the Chantry, same as you."

He laughed again. "She seems to think our friendship is a bond worthy of such insubordination."

"Hmph. Sure you're not fucking her, too?"

She half expected him to bristle at her terrible joke, but to her surprise, he just nuzzled her nose with his and pressed a chaste kiss against her lips. "That honor is reserved for you alone, my lady," he murmured.

Solona gave in and melted into his arms again, letting the sandalwood spice of him fill her nostrils as her tongue met his, aching and wanting. This - whatever they were doing - _was_ dangerous, but something about this moment felt a lot more like salvation.


	11. Saints Made of Plaster

Solona sank into her mattress, practically humming with restless energy. She traced the designs on her warding bracelet with trembling fingers and tapped her foot against the wall as she stared at the ceiling, her mind buzzing with unwanted thoughts.

"I said I was in love with him," she groaned, banging her head back on her pillow. " _Why_ did I say that?"

"Because you are."

Solona almost fell off the bed in alarm. "Neria!"

Neria materialized from the shadows with a grin, red hair hanging in a loose braid over her left shoulder. "The one and only."

Solona turned over and buried her face into the sheets. "How long have you been in here?" she groaned, her voice muffled by her pillow.

"Long enough." Neria crossed the room with quick strides and perched on the edge of the bed. "I was hoping to catch you before you left tomorrow. You left your door unlocked."

"No point in locking it when the templars all have keys."

"Fair."

The air in her room suddenly felt stale. Solona dragged one arm out from under her head and twirled her fingers until a light breeze swept through her quarters. Several sheets of paper ruffled on her desk and flew to the floor. "Fuck it," Solona mumbled, and waved her hand again for another breeze, but Neria caught her wrist and frowned.

"You're pacing."

Solona turned and glared at her with a raised eyebrow. "I'm lying down."

"Still." Neria frowned, lacing their fingers together with a reassuring squeeze. "You're restless, and you're pacing in your mind."

"That a Dalish saying or something?"

"Yes, actually." An amused expression flickered across Neria's face. "My Keeper used to say that pacing in your mind is just as much a waste of energy as pacing with your legs. And much worse for your thoughts."

"Great. So I'll waste away earlier and die even younger. News to no one."

An awkward silence settled over the room. Neria frowned and cocked her head sideways. "Solona, what's going on? Ever since your Harrowing, you've been…"

"Withdrawn?" Solona finished. She shoved herself to a seated position and leaned against the wall with her arms around her knees. "Sullen? Broody? Save it, Neri. Between Irving and Lucien, I've heard all of it this week."

"What happened?" Neria prodded gently.

"Stop it."

"Stop what?"

Solona waved her hands in front of her. "That…that _Keeper_ thing you do, where you act all motherly and try to fix other people's problems. Some issues don't have solutions, alright?"

"I'm not trying to fix you, Sol," Neria said quietly. "You're my friend, and you're in pain. Something is eating you alive, _lethallan_. I can't just sit quietly by and watch that happen. You know that."

"Maker. Fuck." Solona wrapped her arms around her legs again and buried her face into her knees as shame crept up her face. "I'm sorry, Neri. I…you didn't deserve what I just said to you. I'm sorry. I just." She trailed off into a heaving sob, and before she knew it Neria was sitting next to her, drawing her into a hug with both arms and whispering something in Elvhen, and she had no idea what any of the words meant, but Neria was saying them in that soothing, melodic voice of hers and maybe that meant things might eventually be okay.

So she told Neria everything. About her Harrowing, meeting Tenacity, about the trade Lynkhaba had suggested. About the mark on her arm tempting her into that trade every single day, even when the bracelet she wore cut off the magic powering it. She confessed what had transpired between her and Cullen earlier that day between hiccuping sobs and pausing to awkwardly blow her nose into the sleeves of her soiled robes.

"I told him I was in love with him," she sniffled. "I'm not. Or. I don't know. Maybe I am, but I _can't_ be. It was dangerous before, but now with this … this … _thing_ on my arm…" She spat the word out like venom between her lips. "I can't keep doing this. I can't keep wanting him, not when there's a demon on the other side of the Veil just _waiting_ for me to give in."

"Love doesn't work like that, Sol," Neria murmured sadly. "It hits you in the face before you realize what's happening, and when it's ripped away, it takes a piece of you with it, and sometimes there's nothing you can do to stop any of it from happening."

Solona sniffled again and wiped her face with a fistful of her sheets. "I thought you were supposed to be comforting me right now," she grumbled.

Neria took Solona's face into her delicate hands. "I'm telling you I understand." Her eyes glittered with unshed tears. "Every day I see Teresa in the halls, and every day I wonder what we could have done differently. She took the fall for me, did you know that? She protected me by taking the brand herself, and not a day goes by that I don't miss her. I know what it's like to want something you know you can't ever have for good, Sol, and for what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"What happened between you two?"

"She loved me," Neria said simply. "She loved me, and I convinced her to run away with me. When they caught us, she told Greagoir the whole plan was her idea, that I'd argued with her every step of the way. The let me off with a stern warning, and she … well. You know what happened to her."

"Maker, Neri," Solona breathed. "You tried to escape? When? How?"

Neria fiddled with her fingernails. "Remember last Justinian, when I disappeared for a few days and then later Ariban said I was in the back laboratory observing a project for him? He was covering for me after the fact. I didn't want anyone knowing what happened, how I'd been so _stupid_." She stared down at the sheets, her gaze lost in a far off memory. "We made it as far as the Imperial Highway when the templars found us. I'd never been so scared in my life. You know the most ridiculous part of it all?" She looked up, mouth set in a hard line. "I chose this life. I came to the Circle myself. I never told you that, did I?"

"No," Solona said slowly. "You said you got separated from your clan when the templars found you."

"Another lie," Neria confessed, her eyes turning back to the fabric in front of her. "I came here on my own. My Keeper, well. I was her First. I was supposed to take over for her, right? Trained to lead the clan and everything. There's three mages in a Dalish clan: the Keeper, who keeps your history and leads you; the First who trains under the Keeper and is next in line, and then the Second. Some clans are alright with having more than three mages, but most … aren't. If you're the fourth mage born in most Dalish clans, your Keeper makes arrangements for you to be sent to a clan who doesn't have enough mages and maybe needs a First or a Second. And…" She took a deep breath. "One of my little sisters was the fourth mage in our clan. She's a twin, came into her magic young. Our mother cried for days when we found out. Keeper Ysolie sent a runner off to Clan Dorae to negotiate Lila's future, and we … argued. For hours. Lila was five years old, she and Fern were glued at the hip, and she was _terrified_ when she found out Ysolie was going to just give her away.

"I told Ysolie to send me away instead, and she said she'd invested too much into me already to let me go. I told her I'd run away, and she shook her head and said the hunters would find me eventually. So I told her I'd go somewhere the hunters couldn't reach me." She scoffed. "I was such an idiot. I was fifteen, and reckless. Thought I was being some kind of hero. As it turned out, I just traded one set of jailers for another, except now I can't even lie down in the grass and see the stars at night. Lila's flourishing as Clan Surana's Second though, last I heard, thank the Creators for that. I traded my freedom for my sister's place in our family, and." She shook her head in disgust. "I'd probably trade it back in a heartbeat now if it meant I could just feel the grass under my feet again."

Tears were gathering now in the corners of her almond eyes, shimmering like emeralds in the candlelight. "Teresa made me feel like I could do anything. I felt free with her, and that made me reckless, do you understand?"

Solona found herself nodding. Of course she understood that much. That was what had drawn her to Cullen in the first place, wasn't it? She was more than just a mage to him, and her magic thrilled him almost as much as it thrilled her. Being with him was the most free she'd ever felt in her entire life. She felt tears brimming in her own eyes at the thought.

"I made a mistake with Teresa," Neria said flatly. "A mistake that she paid a heavy price for. I've seen the way Cullen looks at you, and if you don't think that man will jump to your defense the second the two of you are caught, you're a fool. But I know what it does to you, how it feels when someone like that falls into your life. You love him, and that's something I understand too well."

Solona sighed, a heavy sound from a heavier heart. "I wish I knew what to do," she lamented, her fingers twisting the silver bracelet around her wrist with agitation. "It seems so simple, doesn't it? Give up the magic, have a normal life."

"Don't go down that road, _lethallan_ ," Neria warned. "These things always come with a price, one realized far too heavily, and too late." She brushed a stray curl from Solona's face and tucked it behind her ear. "And you are the last person I can imagine being happy without magic. Have you looked in a mirror, Sol? You live and breathe the Fade more than anyone I've ever met. You _blink_ and the world bends around you. Can you really imagine a life where that isn't a part of you?"

Neria was right, but Solona didn't know how she felt about that particular truth. She leaned her head on Neria's shoulder and chuckled instead. "You may be right. A life where it takes more than ten seconds to heat my bathwater? I may die."

* * *

Solona opened her eyes to an unfamiliar room. She was still in a bed, but the area around her was a one room cabin with a fire crackling merrily in the fireplace. Red velvet drapes covered the windows, and one window in particular had one side of the drapes tied back with a golden ribbon, showcasing an expanse of snow covered pine trees outside with the faintest glimmering rays of sunlight peeking through the branches.

"You read about a place like this in a book once," a familiar voice said from somewhere beside her. "It felt like you liked it. I hope I read that right."

Tenacity's translucent form materialized on the bed next to her. "Sorry if this was disorienting," they added, almost sheepishly. "I missed talking to you, is that strange? I think it's a feeling I picked up from your memories. It's so interesting."

"It's really creepy how you do that," Solona said dryly. "Do you rifle around in my head intentionally, or do you just accidentally bump into my thoughts on the way to the privy?"

The spirit wrinkled their nose. "That's offensive. I would never."

"Mmhm. Right." Solona snickered. "Youre a Maker-damned liar. I definitely would." She popped her knuckles and leaned back into plush, silk covered pillows. "So, what, you made this whole place up because you couldn't go another minute without my witty charm?"

Tenacity shrugged. "You felt…turbulent. I thought you might need another friend."

"Huh." Solona felt her lips curl up into a half smile. "That's actually really sweet."

"I _am_ sorry, I hope you know that."

"Sorry? For what?"

A decidedly mortal expression of remorse flickered across their face. "Not being strong enough to help you towards the end of your Harrowing. You're marked now, because of me. I never meant for that to happen."

Solona sighed. "Tenacity, that isn't your fault. She was powerful. Bitch knew exactly what she was doing. I can't fault you for that, you know? I may not have made it that far if it weren't for you." She wrinkled her nose. "Are my emotions really that strong? You're picking them up…disturbingly well."

They flashed a wry smile. "Absolutely tempestuous, my dear."

She rolled her eyes. "Fantastic. I'm a beacon for demons, I'm sure."

"We can't all be perfect."

Solona groaned. "Am I really that much of a smartass?"

Tenacity shrugged. "I have no basis for comparison."

She flopped back on the bed. "Asshole," she grumbled.

The last thing she heard before waking up was Tenacity's melodious laughter.

* * *

When Solona awoke, Neria was cuddled next to her, the two of them a wild tangle of limbs and twisted sheets. She brushed a hand through Neria's red hair, unbraided and wavy across the pillows. Her friend's presence in the bed was warmth and comfort, soothing in all the right ways, and she inhaled deeply at the scent, warm and earthy, sweet spices and a blend of herbs she didn't recognize.

She felt a twinge in her chest when she realized Teresa had been an herbalist before…well. Before.

Someone knocked on the door, and Neria jerked awake, the crown of her head colliding squarely with Solona's nose. "Fenedhis lasa!" she swore, and then another string of unintelligible curses in Elvhen streamed from her mouth as she leapt out of bed and yanked her robe on over her undershirt and smalls.

Solona was still nursing her nose when the door opened and a deeply tanned woman with tousled dark brown hair gathered into a loose bun poked her head into the room, eyes widening when she saw Neria. "Amell?" she said cautiously. Her voice was deep and rich and reminded Solona of the way honey flowed from the comb when the kitchens got fresh jars every spring. "Oh, shit, you're not Amell," the woman amended hastily. "Is this the wrong room?" She ducked her head back out in confusion.

"No," Solona groaned. "Right room. I'm over here. Who are you?"

"Oh. _Oh_!" The woman held up her hands, shaking her head quickly. "I can come back in a few minutes if you-"

Neria stiffed and grabbed her staff. "No need," she said thinly. "I was just leaving."

"Neri, wait-" Solona said, but Neria had already swept out of the room.

"So, uh." The woman cast a glance over the room. "Can I…come in?"

Solona shrugged. "Sure. You look familiar; you're a templar, right? I probably don't have a choice anyway."

The woman eyed her warily as she slipped in the room. She was tall, as tall as Cullen, and almost as powerfully built. The sleeves of her loosely fitted shirt were rolled up to her elbows, revealing forearms taut with a warrior's strength, and along her right forearm curled a tattoo of a phoenix, the brightly plumed head nestled into the crook of her elbow, the elaborately designed tail spiraling around her wrist and ending on the back of her hand at the base of her middle finger.

"I, uh. Shit." She ran her fingers through her hair, seemingly forgetting it was tied back until her fingers popped the tie from its place and sent coarse, wavy black hair cascading over her shoulders. "Well. Anyway." She ignored the tie abandoned on the floor and extended a hand in greeting. "Hannah Trevelyan. They probably want you to call me Ser or some shit, but if you could maybe only do that in front of the Knight-Captain, that would be just fine with me. I was sent to collect you when the wagon was ready."

Solona took Hannah's hand and shook it slowly, sleep fogged mind overwhelmed by, well, _her._ Hannah's presence commanded a room like a friendly thunderstorm.

"Grab a bag if you're packed and we can get going," Hannah said brightly. "Oh, and-" She fumbled in her pockets and lowered her voice as she pulled out a set of coral prayer beads joined in the center by a silver likeness of the Sword of Mercy. "This is from Cullen. He wanted you to have it on the road. I told him you probably weren't Andrastian - _oh_ yes, Ser Merovel told me _all_ about the 'Andraste was a mage and the Maker was a Fade spirit' incident-"

"That was _six years ago_!" Solona sputtered, indignant. Hannah only chuckled and shrugged.

"Hey, no judgment from me. My opinion? The Maker loves all his children, whether they give a shit about his existence or not. I'm just saying. I told Cullen a set of Chant Stones would probably mean nothing to you, but he insisted. Something about wanting you to have a reminder of the Maker's presence while you're away from home or some disgustingly sentimental drivel. Honestly." She tutted. "He's so smitten with you, it's embarrassing."

Solona only stared. "He really did tell you," she managed finally.

Hannah shrugged. "Not so much as I needled it out of him. Don't worry, the two of you aren't that obvious. I just know him well." She pursed her lips before adding, "I was at your Harrowing, too."

"…oh."

Hannah pressed the beads into Solona's hands. "He's a good man," she murmured. "An honorable one. And he'd fall on his own sword for you if he thought it would keep you safe. Just…take care of his heart, okay?"

"I…" Solona paused, mouth still agape. She took the beads with trembling hands and slipped them over her head, tucking them beneath her robes. "Of course. Thank you." The Sword of Mercy was cold against her bare skin, but the weight of it was strangely comforting.

"Maker, my enemies are abundant," she murmured, rolling one of the beads between her fingers. "Many are those who rise up against me, but my faith sustains me. I shall not fear the legion, should they set themselves against me."

Hannah arched an eyebrow. "Huh. Ser Merovel might owe me five sovereigns."

"There was a templar who helped raise me, when I was small," Solona explained. "He used to…teach me Chant verses. Bribed me with sweets," she recalled wryly. "I suppose they should thank cinnamon buns for my knowledge of the first Canticle of Trials."

"All sixteen verses?"

She dropped the beads back into her robes and stared at the floor. "He retired to Greenfell. Got the lyrium madness, probably long dead by now. They're all I have left to remember him by," she said quietly. "I don't know if I believe in the Maker, but if I did…" She looked up and eyed Hannah sadly, shaking her head. "No one who loves his children would put either of us through what we go through. I refuse to believe that."

"I was under the impression you didn't think very highly of us."

Solona looked up and gave a noncommital shrug. "Most of you, maybe. I knew decent templars once. Maybe I've met a couple more."

Hannah grinned and held out a hand. "Well in that case. Shall we?"


	12. Spring Thaw, Morning Fog

Cullen watched the wagon depart from his window with a twinge in his chest. He sighed and rubbed at a knot in his neck. A month ago, he would have been grateful for the quiet brought about by Hannah's absence, but lately he'd grown rather fond of her unflappable confidence, and instead of peaceful, the templar commons just felt empty.

He was also mildly irritated that Hannah had yanked a confession about his feelings for Solona out of him the day before the two of them left for a whole month. He gritted his teeth and leaned his forehead against the windowpane. It wasn't like he could send either of them letters without raising unwanted questions. Especially to Solona.

Maker's breath, he already missed her.

"Don't brood too hard, shem," someone behind him chirped. "You'll get wrinkles."

He whirled around and saw the red-haired Dalish apprentice leaning casually against a pillar, staring at him with piercing green eyes. Coppery curls normally braided into intricately woven patterns fell loosely around her shoulders today, framing the dark red tattoos swirling around her freckled face and giving her the wild appearance of an Avvar shield maiden from books he'd read as a child. She was thin but wiry, and she stood with a level of grace he didn't know if he'd ever master in one lifetime.

He would be lying if he said her very presence didn't unnerve him.

"You're not supposed to be in here," he said, cursing the lack of authority in his voice. The expression on Neria's face was making his skin crawl.

"I heard a rumor," she said, the disturbingly cheerful smile still pasted on her face as she walked toward him, hips swaying, "that you have your eyes on someone rather dear to me."

 _Maker's breath._

"Did you, now?" Cullen asked, fighting to keep his voice steady and nonchalant.

"Mmhm."

He scanned the room nervously, but it seemed they were currently the only occupants. He wasn't sure how to feel about that fact yet.

Neria stood close enough that he could smell the cinnamon-clove sachet she wore around her neck. "If you cannot keep those eyes to yourself," she murmured, "try to contain the destruction wrought by your own poor choices to your own life, because if you harm her in any way, you will _pray_ it is the Dread Wolf nipping at your heels." He shuddered as she traced the outline of his ears with her fingers. "And your prayers _will_ fall on deaf ears. Good day, Ser Rutherford."

She turned and strode to the stairwell before he could drag a single word in response from his treacherous throat.

* * *

"Apple harvest looks good this year. Pa's going to be pleased."

Marian scowled at her twin brother's ridiculously exaggerated accent and kicked her feet in agitation against the fence she'd perched on. "It's still snowing, Garrett. And we're not farmers. We're mercenaries. Have you forgotten already?"

"Oh, but it's not too late to change course, isn't it?" Garrett ran a hand through his beard and chuckled, blue eyes twinkling in the sunlight. "Sickles and scythes make for great weapons I hear, anyway. Perhaps we can do both."

"Being a farmer means staying in one place long enough to _have_ a farm," Marian hissed angrily. "Or have you forgotten we've had to relocate three times this past year, the latest being because _someone_ couldn't keep it in his pants?" She hopped off of the fence, misstepped, and landed in a heap on top of a bale of hay. Garrett only chuckled, much to her growing irritation.

"A fine, strapping young lad will do that to you, Mari," he teased, extending a hand to help her up. "Perhaps we should find you one as well."

She slapped his hand away. "I'm serious, you little shit. It's hard enough for Mother and Carver, being on the run because of us and Bethany and Father. They risk their lives to keep us safe; the _least_ we can fucking do is repay them with some Maker-damned responsibility!" She spat in the hay and glared daggers at him. "I hope _Frederick_ was worth everything you just put this family through."

"Fred wasn't the one who called the templars on us, Ri," he said softly, his voice quavering, as she stormed away. "He lied to buy us time. He was a good man, and I don't regret what we had. Not every shitty situation has to be someone's fault."

Marian shook her head and kept walking. It wasn't like Garrett to be serious like this, and if she were a better sister she would probably have listened to her gut and turned around. But she wasn't a better sister. She wasn't even a _good_ sister; she didn't need anyone else to tell her that. Bethany was the good one. Bethany would have turned around when she heard the tell-tale crack of heartbreak in her brother's voice, would have run back and embraced him and been a _good sister_ , but Marian wasn't even that. Marian was the sister that yelled, and then she was the sister that ran away.

"Ri. Ri, I'm sorry."

Tears were beginning to spill from her eyes, weeks of anger and regret and heartache fighting for release as she forced herself to keep trudging through the icy spring slush. One less mage in the family was probably a good thing, anyway. Bethany was caring and responsible, Garrett was charming and uplifting, but what was she?

"You're the storm, Mari."

Garrett's voice behind her, his arms around her shoulders, steadying her shaking and erratic breathing.

"What?"

"What you are." He rubbed her upper arms through the thin fabric of her sleeves. "You're the storm. You're the fire that keeps the rest of us safe. You're a good sister, Mari. I know it's hard to believe yourself, but at least believe me."

Her heart sank. "I…said that shit out loud, didn't I?" she mumbled.

He chuckled again, the laughter in his chest rumbling against her back. "I believe you called me charming and uplifting."

"Don't push your luck, ass face," she huffed.

"Don't worry." He kissed the back of her head and squeezed her tightly. "Your secret's safe with me."

* * *

A light snow had begun to fall as the wagon trundled east to the King's Highway. The spring thaw was later than usual this year, and the biting wind was excruciating even through both a wool coat and fur lined cloak. Solona was torn between bundling her entire head under the cloak and bearing the brunt of the windy weather on her face for the sake of seeing more snow.

Because, Maker's mercy, the _snow_.

Enduring a few minutes of a snowstorm from the warmth of a loft in the library was one thing, but out here, she was _immersed_ in it. She'd felt this kind of cold before, sure, but this wasn't just an ice spell she could dispel with the wave of a hand. This wasn't a fantasy yanked from the Fade with a few minutes of concentrated mental fortitude; this was _real_. This was actual _snow_ falling from the _sky_.

She watched flurries gathering on her mittens with growing fascination. It was all so different from the ways she'd experienced snow before. With the icy wind and the layers of fabric between her skin and the open air, the snowflakes didn't melt into droplets of water the second they touched her, and there was no magic required for them to build their own delicate fortresses on her palms. Eventually, though, the cold won out, and she huddled back underneath her cloak, shivering wildly.

Beside her, Hannah made a groaning noise as she burrowed into her own nest of furs. Jaylen snorted, looking over the two of them with amusement. "Suppose this solves that argument," she said dryly.

"The fuck's that supposed to mean, Cap?" Hannah shot back.

"That you Marchers are just _born_ with blood thinner than water," Jaylen said breezily, a half smile still playing across her stern features.

Hannah scowled. "Laugh it up, Knight-Captain. We'll be around - alive - long after you freeze to death 'cause you're too damn Ferelden proud to wear more than one set of sleeves." She rolled the country's name slowly from her tongue, an inflection reserved for insults. Solona watched them banter in silence. She'd never spoken with the Knight-Captain personally since her appointment three years ago, and Solona was finding Jaylen much less formal than she expected. She'd always heard good things about Knight-Captain Jaylen, but she certainly never expected to _like_ the woman, and yet her brisk, down to earth manner was a refreshing change from the grim piety she'd come to expect from most of the templars she knew these days. Curious times, indeed.

Ellaria tutted from her corner of the wagon. "Those poor girls are going to freeze on your watch, Jaylen. I told you we should have packed more furs." She pulled her gloves off and stowed them in her lap, brushing aside silvery locks of hair blown loose by the wind.

"Enchanter, please," Jaylen said firmly. "The roads are treacherous, more so now if the rumors these days hold any weight behind them. Save your magic in case we-"

Whatever she was about to say was interrupted by a cry of pain and the bloodied body of their driver toppling backwards into the wagon, practically in their laps. An unearthly shriek pierced the air, accompanied by the foul stench of decay, and Solona had barely registered what was happening when an arrow pierced her cloak and lodged itself directly into her shoulder. She let out an "oh" of surprise, and then her mind registered the pain, searing and raw.

Hannah's eyes widened as she leapt up from the bench and drew her sword. "Oh, fuck," she whispered, and then the air around them erupted with flames.


	13. Recollection

**A/N: I'm putting in a noncon-ish? trigger warning for a few lines in the last scene of this chapter. Spoiler free summary/description: Solona has a demon related night terror, and the demon decides to get a little handsy. Everything is strictly over the clothes. Marked with bolded *** if you choose to skip through those particular lines.**

* * *

Solona felt herself slipping in and out of consciousness as she gripped the arrow shaft protruding from her shoulder. It had gone clean through her arm and effectively pinned her to the interior of the wagon, a situation that she may have found funny in a later telling of this story, but right now all she knew was terror and the blinding pain in her arm. Choking clouds of dust and Maker even knew what else thickened the air around her to the point where all she could see was the grain of the wood on the wagon floor and a handful of blurred shadows somewhere beyond her reach.

"Fuck," she groaned. If she could just reach up and snap the shaft, she could probably free herself…

She shifted slightly to reach over with her free arm and was rewarded with a blinding pain lancing through her shoulder and neck, wringing a guttural cry of pain from her lips.

Hannah appeared beside her suddenly. "Ellaria and Jaylen have things under control for the time being. Holding up okay?"

"I'm pinned to a wagon with an arrow in my arm, what do you think?" Solona griped through gritted teeth.

"All the way through?"

Solona nodded. "I think so."

Hannah inspected the wound with careful fingers. She cut away the cloak and the bloodstained section of Solona's shirt with a knife. "Okay. I can't get to the back of it, so here's what we're going to do. I'm going to snap it off on the fletching end, and on the count of three, we're going to pull you off of it. It's going to hurt. A lot. Ready?"

"At least you're honest," Solona groaned. Hannah stuffed a strip of leather between her teeth. She closed her eyes, letting out a hiss of pain as the snap of the arrow shaft jostled her roughly.

"Alright." Hannah grabbed her firmly by the shoulders. "On three, push yourself forward. Can you do that?"

Solona nodded, eyes still closed.

"Deep breath," Hannah encouraged. "Three, two, one."

Even her teeth clenched around the strap in her mouth didn't stop the guttural cry of pain that tore from her throat when Hannah yanked her forward. The distinct feeling of the arrow shaft sliding through flesh and sinew made her stomach turn, and a cold sweat broke out across her skin as she toppled forward into Hannah's arms.

"There we go." Hannah's voice, soothing in her ear. "Deep breaths. It's alright. I've got you."

Solona stumbled to the edge of the cart and vomited over the side, causing a fresh wave of blood to bloom warmly down her ruined shirt. Hannah guided her back down to the bench and pushed a vial into her trembling hands. "Drink up," she urged. "You'll feel better in a few seconds."

The potion tasted of elfroot and spindleweed, stronger than any draught she'd ever taken in the Circle. She choked it down gagging and fought the urge to throw it back up. Hannah rubbed gentle circles on her back as the potion took effect, her arm tingling from the feeling of flesh knitting itself back together.

"Better?" Hannah asked.

Another explosion interrupted them before Solona could say anything. "Trevelyan!" Jaylen yelled. "A little help here!"

"Hang tight," Hannah whispered before she leapt off of the cart and into the fray, her profile fading into the dust.

Solona gritted her teeth and clambered out of the wagon after her, fingers locked tightly around the grip of her staff. One swift motion covered her body in a shimmering barrier, and she charged forward into the cloud, staff raised, summoning a gentle wind to clear the air in front of her.

The sight that met her when the dust blew to the side chilled her blood. The creature staring at her with yellow eyes was tall, and muscled, with a body that looked vaguely human save for the mottled grey flesh covered in patches of glistening, dark ooze. It had no hair and a skeletal face, rotted slits where a nose should have been, yellow eyes fixed on her filled with hunger and hatred. The stench of decay was overpowering now, as though death itself followed the creature around in a dense, unearthly cloud.

It let out a roar and swung its sword at her, rusted and tarnished armor clanking and grinding as the dented blade swept toward her face. She ducked and wrapped its hands and feet in tendrils of ice, pulling them tightly before fully solidifying them and sending the creature sprawling forward into the snow. Summoning a small orb of energy, a spherical barrier around a smoldering flame, she reared back and hurled it into the creature's mouth with controlled precision. She imagined she was back in the training hall, Lucien and Neria beside her yelling their encouragement as she attempted spells of greater and greater difficulty with varying levels of success.

She imagined that moment as clearly as she could while guiding the orb down the creature's throat as it lay hissing and struggling at her feet. She threw up one last barrier, a dome shaped aura containing the creature's writhing body, and pulled her other hand back, clenching her fingers into a tight fist and detonating the orb inside of it. Viscera rained against the inside of the barrier, turning the grass peeking through the snow a sickly shade of brownish black where the blood fell in torrents, but finally the gory display settled and Solona canceled the barrier altogether with a snap of her fingers.

Hannah's yell drew her attention across the clearing. Another one of the creatures had slammed its warhammer into her torso, denting her armor and sending her sprawling against the trunk of a nearby tree. Solona sprinted towards her, lungs burning, arms leaden with exhaustion. She imagined a cage, sparking with energy from the Fade, and clamped the spell around Hannah's assailant. Its body lifted into the air as it writhed around on some invisible spear seemingly thrust through its body, and soon its pained shrieks faded to weak groans, then finally, to silence.

Footsteps crunched across the clearing as Ellaria ran to inspect Hannah, still slumped unconscious against the tree. Jaylen paused next to Solona and surveyed the carnage, her gaze pausing on the two creatures Solona had brought down herself. "Never thought when I planned this trip that the blighted darkspawn would cause any trouble," she said quietly. Her hand brushed Solona's shoulder in concern. "How are you feeling?"

"Sore," Solona admitted. "Tired."

Jaylen chuckled. "Less than what most would say after taking down two hurlocks singlehandedly. Did you study with Enchanter Grayson?"

Solona nodded. "Four years. How did you know?"

Jaylen gestured at the staff. "I've had the privilege of sparring with her several times. You move the same way she does, with a specific pattern of steps to align the magic for each spell just so. Her forms always _look_ disturbingly off balance, but I have yet to see her actually hit the ground. Saw that in you just now, too. You move with grace. She's trained you well."

"Thank you-" Solona trailed off and stared at the Knight-Captain as the weight of her previous words sank in. "Did you just say darkspawn?"

"Fucking _Void_!" Hannah swore as Ellaria's healing spell took effect enough for her to regain consciousness. She jumped to her feet and pointed an accusatory finger at Jaylen. "You never mentioned there were going to be _darkspawn_ on this route. Some fair warning would have been nice before getting my ribs crushed in by one!"

"Stand down, Trevelyan," Jaylen warned.

"Hannah, you are still injured-" Ellaria began, but Hannah shook her head and glared daggers at Jaylen.

"We were there when patrols from the south came with rumors of a Blight coming. They stood there and told us how the Chasind were describing darkspawn ambushes, and _you_ said they were just chasing ghost stories!" Hannah jabbed a finger near Jaylen's face in punctuation. "Did you even bother investigating the rumors at all, or did you-"

"Knight-Templar Trevelyan, _stand down_." They were both breathing heavily, sweat beading down Hannah's face despite the cold. Jaylen's voice carried an edge of steel.

They stared at each other, neither of them moving, until Hannah finally backed away, head bowed. "Apologies, Knight-Captain."

"Accepted, Trevelyan. We can discuss this further when we make camp tonight. For now…" She glanced at the hired driver, his body stiffening in the wagon. The horses pulling it were both lying in heaps on the ground, neither exhibiting a single sign of life. "We're going to have to continue on foot. We will take the south road through Lothering and try to get a fresh set of horses there. In the meantime, I suggest we grab our packs and start walking. Any questions?"

"No ma'am," Hannah grumbled. She walked to the cart and grabbed two backpacks with one hand. "Grabbed yours too," she said to Solona. "I'll hold onto it until Ellaria takes a look at that shoulder of yours. Give it a look-over, Enchanter?"

Ellaria reached for Solona's cloak. "May I?" she queried. Solona nodded, shivering as the cold finally broke through the adrenaline rush from the battle. Ellaria's hands were gentle and warm as she felt her way around the now-sealed entry wound. The bleeding had long since stopped, but blood still crusted around the scar, and angry purple bruises covered the entire left side of her chest. The healing spell came in slow, steady pulses.

"That was a brave thing you did," Ellaria said, her voice as gentle as her fingers as they worked their way along her shoulder. "Following Trevelyan into battle like that. You may have saved her life today."

"Thanks," Solona mumbled. The pain was beginning to fade away entirely, and as the adrenaline rush ebbed, a heavy fatigue settled into her limbs. She leaned on her staff for support and eyed the path before them with a grimace before following Hannah onto the road.

* * *

"Neri."

 _Four parts everite powder, one part lyrium/saltwater suspension-_

"Neria."

Neria continued scrawling in her notebook. _No byproducts produced unless lyrium is contaminated with creeping spores-_

"Neria I-Hate-Fun Surana."

Neria looked up from her table as a crumpled ball of paper flew toward her face and bounced off of her forehead. "For the last time, Dalish don't _have_ middle names-" His words fully registered then, and she swore and hurled the paper back across the table where it soared over his head and bounced harmlessly off of a bookcase before rolling out of reach under a nearby lectern.

Lucien cackled before leaning back in his seat with a satisfied smirk. "Finally. You know, for a second there I was convinced you were ignoring me."

She glared at him. "I was. I need to have several possible solutions to this everite enchantment problem by tomorrow morning, and I'm getting nowhere. You are not helping."

"All you ever do is work these days," he complained. "I remember when you used to be fun."

The door creaked, and Jowan slipped into the library and joined their corner table. He glanced at the books scattered across the table, and then at Neria with an eyebrow cocked. "Another late night? Maker, you're starting to look like me now."

"And that's not a compliment," Lucien snickered. He pulled a stack of biscuits wrapped loosely in linen from somewhere in his robes and nibbled on one, grin still on his face.

Jowan's face lit up. "Helen is back in the kitchens?" he asked hopefully.

Lucien threw him a biscuit and cackled when he barely caught it with both hands, crumbs cascading down the front of his robes. "Delivered the baby myself. Little Abigail, shipped off to her sister's three days ago."

"She's already back on her feet?" Neria asked, arching an eyebrow in surprise.

Lucien stuffed the rest of his biscuit in his mouth and brushed the crumbs from his chin. "Sounds like you, doesn't it?"

Jowan thumbed the spine of one of Neria's books thoughtfully. "It's cruel, isn't it?" he said finally. "For mages who have children. Would it be so bad I wonder, letting them stay here in the tower?"

"Perish the thought." Neria scowled. "They don't even let siblings share the same Circle. We don't get the luxury of families." She couldn't mask the bitterness from her voice. She missed her clan more with each year that passed, and the thought of spending the rest of her life in this cursed place grew harder to bear as the days wore on. Stupid, she chided herself. That was her, wasn't it? Reckless, impulsive Neria, always willing to catch an arrow for anyone who didn't deserve it. So many people didn't deserve the arrows life shot at them. She was finally beginning to understand she couldn't bear them all without falling to pieces, but perhaps it was already too late.

She expected Lucien to add his own barb to the pile, but he merely glanced at Jowan with a sorrowful look on his face. "I'm sorry, _vhenan_ ," he said quietly. He clapped a hand over his mouth in alarm when he realized what he said, and Neria stifled a laugh.

"Please," she said dryly. "The two of you are _not_ as discreet as you think you are."

Jowan pursed his lips and reached across the table with a tentative hand. Lucien took it and rubbed small circles across Jowan's palm with a pensive look on his face.

"In another life," Lucien said, a cheeky grin curving across his face as he looked at Neria. "You'd carry our baby for us, right?"

Neria rolled her eyes. "That's a particularly creative way to proposition me," she said dryly. "Maybe you should ask Solona when she gets back."

Lucien practically howled with laughter at that, drawing a few glares from the library's other occupants. "She would rather fling herself out of a window, I'm pretty sure. If that templar doesn't kill us both first. He strikes me as a bit of a possessive type, don't you think?"

She rolled her eyes again. "You always think templars are the possessive type. If I didn't know you better, I'd wager you want to bed them all yourself and find out."

Jowan chuckled. "He certainly was eager to drag the details from her after they-"

Lucien rose to his feet and cleared his throat, glaring. " _Vhenan_ , a word?"

"Whatever you say, love," Jowan said with an uncharacteristically cheeky wink and followed Lucien out of the library. Neria shook her head a and forced herself to stare at the texts in front of her, but the words swam in her eyes.

Solona.

She bit her lip and tried not to think about her friend. Creators, especially not how Solona's arms fit so perfectly around her body, how good those soft fingers had felt running though her hair.

 _Fenedhis_.

 _Especially_ not that.

She let out a tired groan and stuffed the books back into her satchel with a defeated sigh. Perhaps tomorrow, she decided, and shuffled blearily towards the dorms with heavy footsteps.

* * *

"Have you reconsidered my offer yet, sweetling?"

Solona jolted awake to a frail, shadowy figure perched at her feet on the edge of the bedroll.

"This isn't…you're not real," she whispered, horror flooding her veins with ice. The brand on her arm throbbed and burned so intensely she gritted her teeth and clapped her hand over it with a hiss.

"Oh, yes, dear girl," Lynkhaba cooed. Spindly, skeletal fingers reached forward and brushed hair from Solona's forehead in a twisted mockery of motherly gesture. "How _have_ you been feeling lately?"

Solona shuddered and fought down the bile in her throat, her mouth suddenly dry. "Go away," she croaked.

"I'm only here to help you my dear. How long before your sordid affair is made public, hmm? Are you naive enough to think the Knight Commander would have mercy on you because you're the First Enchanter's pet?"

The voice was unearthly, grating on her senses like sharp nails across a chalkboard. She struggled to sit up, but her body felt glued to the bedroll. "I'm not going to hand over my magic. You might as well leave," she growled, fingers pushing into the ground in a desperate attempt to drag herself upright.

Lynkhaba hovered over her, and dread coiled in the pit of her stomach. Those spindly fingers trailed down the side of her face, down her neck, pausing briefly to swirl around on her breasts before continuing their way down her body. "Don't you want this from _him_? Pleasure and companionship, freely given, without fear?"

Solona gripped the fabric of her bedroll as the demon ran her claw-like nails across her clothed sex, horror and arousal coursing through her body simultaneously. She _wanted_ , but it was _him_ she wanted, not this grotesque display of forced physical sensation. "I want," she groaned, "for you to leave."

"Are you sure?" Lynkhaba purred. Her hood obscured her face as she bent forward and made an exaggerated sniffing noise. "Your body tells me a different story."

Solona balled her hands into fists and willed her magic to work, dredging it out of the deepest parts of her with desperate anticipation. It pooled in her hands, slowly gathering strength until she could feel her fingers vibrating in anticipation.

"Such a lovely face. Such delightful, _soft_ skin." Lynkhaba made a lewd gesture with her hand and dragged her fingertips back up Solona's chest.

It was too much. She couldn't hold the magic in her hands anymore, and this _thing_ kept touching her and panic clouded her mind. "Leave me _alone!_ " she yelled, and energy exploded from her hands as she shot upright, sweat pouring down her face.

Hannah sat up abruptly as the air inside the tent crackled and popped. "Bloody _Void_!" she cursed loudly. "The _fuck_ was that all about?"

Solona felt her breath coming out of her in short gasps as she clenched her hands closed and opened them again repeatedly. The tent contained no additional occupants now, and her face flushed as Hannah inspected her curiously with sleepy eyes. "I'm fine," she mumbled, but when her foot brushed against the corner of her blanket she jumped, gasping in alarm.

"You don't look fine. Nightmare?"

Solana nodded.

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Not really." She wrapped her arms around her knees and shivered, trying to forget the sensation of Lynkhaba's hands against her body. The only thing she truly wanted in this moment was to sit in a scalding hot bath and scrub the memories from her skin.

"Hey." Hannah reached out and gently put a hand over her trembling fingers. "I'm right here, okay? Need anything to help you sleep?"

Solona shook her head. "I'm fine," she said again, and this time Hannah nodded and slipped back under her own blanket with an affirmative hum.

"Wake me up if it happens again, alright?"

"I will. Thanks, Hannah."

"No problem," Hannah said sleepily.

Solona sat shivering with her knees drawn to her chest for so long, the sky was beginning to lighten into dawn when she finally sank on her bedroll and into a fitful sleep.


End file.
